THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD 


THE  WINTER  FIRE, 


KOSE    PORTER, 


NEW    YORK  : 

ANSON  D.  P.  RANDOLPH  &  CO. 
No.   T70  BROADWAY. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  bj 
AKSOK  D.  P.  RANDOLPH  &  Co., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York 


STEREOTYPER    AND    PRINTED, 
SO  N.  WILLIAM  ST..  N.  Y. 


?s 


TO 


WHO   TAUGHT   ME, 

WHEN  A  LITTLE  CHILD,  TO  CALL 

GOD 

4( 


"  The  best  of  a  book,  is  not  the  thought  which  it  contains,  but  the 
thought  which  it  suggests.  Just  as  the  charm  of  music,  dwells  not 
in  the  tones,  but  in  the  echoes  of  our  hearts." 

"  What  more  is  wanting  than  a  way  wherein  I  may  havz  room, 
amd  a  gate  that  will  let  me  through  ?  To  this  end  the  Lord  stands 
in  fullness  of  truth  and  grace,  calling  and  inviting  us  with  all 
earnestness :  &mei  ye  in ! — meets  us,  as  it  were,  with  '  enter  in '  be 
fore  we  knock  ;  prays  us  that  we  ask  ;  commands  us  to  seek  ;  encour 
ages  us  Himself  that  we  may  knock!" — STEEB. 

"  The  narrow  way  to  Life  is  broad  enough  for  men  who  care~ 
futty,  gently,  evenly,  walk  in  if."—— 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


I. 

I  WONDER  what  grandpapa  meant  last 
night,  when  I  bade  him  good  night  ? 
He  did  not  say,  as  he  has  always  done 
before,  when  I've  been  going  away :  "  Be 
happy  child,  enjoy  the  bright  summer  time." 
But  he  looked  so  long  at  me  and  said :  "  Re 
member,  little  one,  gather  the  drift-wood 
that  will  light  the  winter  fire."  And  when 
I  laughed,  ai^J  said,  "  Why  grandpapa,  I  am 
going  to  enjoy  myself — to  have  a  good  time. 
I'm  only  going  to  gather  flowers — to  bask 
in  the  sunshine  the  live  long  day — to  listen 
to  the  song  birds" — he  looked  so  sober  as 
he  replied :  "  Ah  !  Annie,  the  flowers  will 
fade — the  sunshine  be  hidden,  when  the  win- 


g  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

ter  storm  clouds  come,  and  the  song  birds 
grow  silent.  Find  something  lasting.  Be 
gin  to  gather  wood,  now,  that  will  warm 
the  heart  when  the  winter  of  life  comes, 
child." — Life's  winter  ! 

I  wish  grandpapa  had  n't  talked  so.  Why, 
it  is  early  summer;  over  all  the  land  the 
flowers  are  just  coming;  and  I'm  so  young 
— I  don't  want  to  think  of  "  sober  things." 
Just  nineteen  to-morrow. — I  think  t'is  such 
a  glad  age ;  and  dear  good  papa  says, 
this  summer's  jaunt  is  to  be  my  birth 
day  treat.  Aunt  Mary  says  she  hopes  every 
day,  all  the  year  through,  will  be  a  birthday 
to  me,  and  she  has  given  me  to  remember, 
that  little  sentence  from  some  German 
writer :  "  The  soul  celebrates  at  every  good 
deed  a  birthday."  I  like  the  \^rds  so  much. 

But,  what  did  grandpapa  mean  ?  And 

this  morning,  when  he  kissed  me,  he  said 
again :  "  Remember,  child,  bring  home  some 
wood  with  the  flowers." 

He  is  such  a  dear  old  grandpapa.  I 
could  n't  help  whispering,  as  I  gave  him  the 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


9 


good-bye  hug — "  I'll  try  to  find  some  kind 
ling,  grandpapa." 

And  then  he  said — "  God-bless  you,  child, 
and  help  you."  I  have  written  it  all  down 
in  this  little  book  that  Fred  gave  me  for  a 
diary  of  "  my  summer,"  so  that  every  night, 
when  I  write  about  the  day,  I  may  remem 
ber  my  promise  to  grandpapa,  and  have 
some  little  lasting  memory,  that  is  not  only 
pleasure-seeking,  but  pleasure-giving  to  re 
cord,  for  I  think  that  must  be  what  grand 
papa  meant. 

Fred  is  such  a  tease.  He  knows  I  hate 

diaries,  and  only  wanted  a  little  note  book ; 
but  he  will  persist  in  saying,  "  Annie  is  going 
to  keep  a  diary  of  her  journey ;"  and  on  the 
fly-leaf  he  has  written  in  his  great  big  round 
hand,  som^words  which  he  says  are  sensi 
ble  and  true.  I  think  they  are  bitter  and 
mannishly  disagreeable.  I  know  a  woman 
never  wrote  them,  and  Fred  is  just  a  pro 
voking  tease  of  a  brother,  to  put  them  in 
my  nice  new  book.  "  Mere  emotion  and 
sympathy  in  woman,  separated  from  sound 


IO  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

thinking,  makes  her  a  sentimentalist,  or  a 
simpleton."  "  To  Annie,  from  her  affection 
ate  brother  Fred,  June  3oth.  " 

Papa  says,  he  hopes  I  will  remember  the 
sentence,  so  I  suppose  I  must  try.  But — I 
have  scribbled  one  whole  page,  and  never 
told  how  we  left  New  York.  Now,  not  one 
bit  of  sentiment,  only  sense,  the  plain  facts 
shall  be  recorded. 

Left  home  on  my  birthday,  June  3Oth, 

by  steamboat  "Daniel  Drew;"  reached  Al 
bany  at  5  o'clock,  and  here  I  am  in  this  hot 
little  room  of  a  crowded  hotel  waiting  for 
to-morrow,  when  we  start  for  Niagara. 

The  beautiful  sail  up  the  river  I  know  I 
never  shall  forget.  It  seems  to  me  now, 
like  a  hundred  dreams  in  one — the  ending 
of  one,  the  beginning  of  anothgr ;  but  one 
can't  weave  with  too  many  ends,  and  one 
can't  paint  with  too  many  colors,  as  my 
painting  master  used  to  say,  when  I  put 
the  little  drops  from  ever  so  many  tubes 
all  over  my  palette.  Well,  I  know  he  was 
right,  and  to  night  my  mind  seems  just  as 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  n 

the  palette  used  to  when  I  made  ready  to 
begin  the  school  girl  daubs  that  papa  calls 
"  My  daughter  Annie's  paintings,  sir." 

I  wonder  if  all  the  glimpses  of  this  day's 
beauty  some  skillful  hand  will  ever  blend 
into  soft  colors  and  regular  lines,  as  Mr.  E. 
used  to  do  with  the  pictures.  My  mind  is 
such  a  girl's  mind.  Fred  says,  it  just  thinks 
in  a  jumble.  I  must  try  and  straighten  it 
all  out.  First  comes  the  leaving  New  York, 
the  sailing  past  the  long  lines  of  streets  and 
city  houses,  then  the  beginning  of  green 
fields  and  great  shade  trees,  and  that  long 
sloping  lawn  that  ran  down  to  the  river 
bank.  Why  did  they  put  that  cheerless  sign 
up  there,  I  wonder  ? — "  Orphan  Asylum." 
— It  was  n't  one  bit  like  papa,  but  when  we 
passed  it  he  drew  me  close  to  him  and  said  : 
"  Annie,  my  little  brown  eyed  girl,  do  you 
know  you  are  like  your  mother  ?" 

My  mother !  I  was  a  tiny  child  when  she 
died.  Grandpapa  says,  "  Don't  say  died,  say 
when  she  went  home."  I  like  it  better  so. 
Why  do  they  tell  the  poor  little  children 


I2  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

when  their  earthly  father  or  mother  goes 
home,  that  they  are  orphans  ?  It  is  such  a 
cold,  desolate  word.  Grandpapa  says,  my 
mother  is  always  near  to  me,  because  she  is 
with  God,  the  "  All  Father,"  and  He  is  nev 
er  "  far  off." 

Dear  papa,  all  these  years  he  has  kept  her 
in  his  heart.  I  wonder  will  any  one  ever 
love  me  so  ?  Fred  would  say :  "  Annie,  don't 
think  of  such  things ;"  and  yet  Fred  himself 
wears  a  slender  little  gold  ring  that  I 
did  n't  give  him.  I  wonder  where  it  came 
from  ?  When  I  asked  him  about  "  Miss  Gold 
en  Hair"  he  looked  cross. But  I  was 

thinking  about  papa.  When  he  left  me  to 
night  he  said :  "  Annie,  your  mother  is  my 
angel  in  Heaven  ;  try,  my  child,  to  be  an  angel 
on  earth  to  Fred  and  me."  I  wish  I  were 
good — like  aunt  Mary,  grandpapa  and  Jack 
Morgan.  I'm  so  full  of  nonsense,  when  I 
begin  to  try,  I  always  forget  right  away. 
Well,  I'm  too  sleepy  now  to  write  another 
word,  and  so  my  first  day  away  from  home 
must  be  left  like  the  school  daub,  for  some 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  j? 

one  else  to  make  into  a  picture.  Did  grand 
papa  think,  my  life  might  be  left  all  empty 
and  unfinished,  just  so ;  and  was  that  what 
he  meant,  by  telling  me  to  gather  up  fire 
wood  ?  Oh !  dear  me  !  Life  is  such  a  puz 
zle  !  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  find  any 
thing  but  shavings,  to  take  back  to  grand 
papa,  and  they  blaze  right  up  into  a  going- 
out  flame,  that  only  tells  it  has  been  by 
ashes — not  always  though,  for  sometimes 
they  kindle  the  great  logs. 

Such  a  pleasant  little  thing  happened  be 
fore  we  left  home.  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
chip  for  my  fire  ;  but  then  it  was  n't,  for  I 
spoiled  my  new  gloves.  When  I  showed 
them  to  papa,  he  said :  "  Oh,  Annie,  you 
careless  girl,  you  will  burn  a  hole  in  my 
pocket  with  your  extravagance."  I  could  n't 
help  laughing,  t'was  such  a  funny  way  to 
begin  to  make  "  my  fire"  by  burning  holes 
in  papa's  pockets. 

It  was  just  before  we  started,  when 

the  sudden  shower  came — how  it  did  pour  !  I 
stood  by  the  window  watching  for  the  car- 


I4  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

riage,  and  I  saw  such  a  queer  little  tot  of  a 
girl,  standing  on  tip-toe,  looking  at  the  let 
ter-box  hanging  just  too  high  for  her  to 
reach  ;  —  out  I  ran,  into  the  street,  and 
caught  the  little  thing  up,  let  her  drop  the 
letter  in  and  put  her  down  again,  almost  be 
fore  she  knew  what  I  was  doing.  Then  she 
looked  up  with  such  a  bright  smile,  saying, 
in  a  faint  whispering  voice,  "  Thank  ye, 
ma'am,  'tis  to  tell  pa,  ma's  sick."  There 
was  something  in  her  smile  and  thank-ye, 
that  seemed  like  a  shaving,  for  I  know 
grandpapa  meant,  for  one  thing,  pleasant 
memories ;  and  I  do  believe,  I  shall  always 
remember  that  child's  glad  look.  But  then 
I  spoiled  my  new  gloves. 


II. 


MY  poor  little  book!  You  have  been 
hidden  away  in  the  corner  of  my 
trunk  for  three  whole  days.  And  now  I've  so 
much  to  write,  I  hardly  know  where  to  be 
gin.  First,  there  was  the  being  half  pleased, 
and  half  disappointed,  when  papa  told  me 
he  had  changed  his  plans,  and,  after  all,  we 
were  going  to  the  mountains  before  Niagara. 
I  suppose  it  was  meeting  the  Morgans  made 
him  change,  and  their  begging  us  so  hard  to 
join  their  party.  Well,  I  know  we'll  have 
a  splendid  time.  I  do  wish  Fred  was  with 
us.  Only  think,  five  of  us  girls  and  Will  and 
Jack  Morgan,  beside  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morgan, 
and  they  expect  to  meet  ever  so  many  pleas 
ant  people !  I  know  papa  will  like  better 

05) 


jg  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

the  having  them  all  to  talk  to,  instead  of  just 
me ;  but  I  can't  help  being  a  little  sorry.  I 
did  think  it  would  be  so  beautiful  to  have 
papa  all  to  myself. 

And  now  we  are  up  among  the  mountains, 
and  last  night  I  saw  the  day  end.  I  wonder 
if  any  one  everfe/t  it  so  beautiful  before? 
I  stood  all  alone,  and  looked  far  off,  down 
into  the  valley  land,  and  traced  the  silver 
thread  that  marks  the  winding  river.  Softly 
over  all  crept  the  shadows  of  the  coming 
evening.  First  the  .twilight  made  dim  the 
far  away  hills  beyond  the  river ;  then  nearer 
and  nearer  to  me  the  shadows  came,  and 
soon  darkness  was  over  the  lowlands.  But 
up  above,  on  the  high  mountain  tops,  the 
golden  rays  of  the  sunlight  lingered — soft, 
rosy  lights,  melting  into  violet  and  shadowy 
tints.  "  The  tenderness  of  color,  the  grave 
tenderness  of  the  far  away  hill  purple,"  as 
Ruskin  calls  it.  I  think  I  saw  it  then  for  the 
first  time.  It  stole  into  my  heart — the  com 
ing  of  the  night  —  among  the  mountains. 
Why  did  I  think  of  grandpapa  then,  and 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  j^ 

the  Winter  of  Life. Have  the  mountain 

pine  trees  voices,  I  wonder?  They  are  so 
near  up  to  the  Beyond.  I  think  they  snatch 
ed  a  whisper  from  the  passing  day,  and 
softly  murmured  it  to  me.  I  wish  it  had 
been  a  song,  rather  than  a  sigh.  These 
waves  of  consciousness — of  the  great  some 
thing  above  ourselves  and  our  little 
thoughts — why  do  they  come,  and  then  go 
so  suddenly  ?  We  stretch  out  our  hands  to 
grasp  them,  and  they  are  gone.  Just  as  the 
twilight  creeps  over  the  hills,  so  the  seen — 
the. present — creeps  over  our  hearts  and 
shuts  away  the  wonderful  unseen — shuts 
away  the  future  —  granting  us  a  glimpse, 
only  enough  to  make  us  homesick  for  more. 
Later  in  the  evening,  when  we  all  sat  on 
the  broad  piazza,  I  tried  to  tell  papa  about 
it ;  but  he  smiled,  and  didn't  give  me  a  bit 
the  answer  I  wanted ;  for  he  only  said ; 
"  Annie,  child,  don't  let  a  wave  from  life's 
ocean  puzzle  your  little  brain ;  only  the 
years  will  give  you  the  sounding  lead  to 
fathom  its  depths." 

2* 


jg  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

I  don't  think  papa  understood  me.  It 
wasn't  Life  I  was  thinking  of  so  much  as 
Death.  Mrs.  Morgan  was  standing  by ;  she 
looked  so  much  amused  while  I  was  talking, 
and  she  pushed  all  the  curls  away  from  my 
face,  saying  :  "  Romantic  girl,  you  are  full  of 
notions."  I  wish  she  wouldn't  play  with  my 
hair.  Fred  says  it  always  looks  as  though 
I  had  been  through  a  bramble-bush,  and  do 
what  I  may,  it  won't  be  straight ;  but  then 
I  like  the  "  waves  and  ripples,"  as  papa  calls 
them,  not  to  be  all  mussed  and  pushed  about 
by  Mrs.  Morgan.  1  suppose  she  means  to 
be  kind.  I  wouldn't  have  minded  it,  only 
Jack  was  standing  by  ;  he  looked  so  queer, 
just  as  though  he  wanted  to  muss  and 
play  with  my  hair,  too.  I  do  like  Jack  Mor 
gan — better  than  almost  any  Oxie  I  know, 
though  I  can't  help  being  a  little  bit  afraid 
of  him — because  he  is  so  good.  We  had 
such  a  beautiful  talk  last  night.  I  must  write 
it  all  down  before  it  slips  out  of  my  mind. 
Jack  does  make  me  want  so  muc  h  to  be  a 
Christian. 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  ig 

Mrs.  Morgan  and  the  others  got  tired 

of  sitting  in  the  dark,  as  sKe  said,  so  we  all 
went  into  the  great  parlor  bright  with  lights. 
Such  a  merry  evening  the  girls  say  they  had 
with  dancing  and  singing ;  but  I  know  I  had 
as  good  a  time  out  in  the  moonlight  with 
Jack. 

Susie  Carrol  was  called  the  prettiest  girl 
of  us  all.  She  did  look  lovely  in  her  white 
dress,  embroidered  all  over  with  tiny  blue 
flowers.  Her  aunt  brought  it  to  her  as  a 
present  from  Paris.  I  don't  believe  I  looked 
nice  at  all.  I  had  on  just  a  simple  white 
frock,  with  the  broad  blue  sash  Fred  likes. 
When  I  asked  papa  if  I  could  go  with  Jack 
Morgan  to  see  the  moon  rise,  he  said,  "  Yes ;" 
but  first  he  wrapped  me  up  in  Mrs.  Mor 
gan's  soft  white  shawl,  and  some  one  said, 
"  Why,  Annie,  you  look  like  a  snow-ball ;" 
and  papa  said,  "  Jack,  here's  a  bundle  for  you 
to  take  to  see  the  moon  rise."  I  felt  so  awk 
ward — but  Jack  didn't  seem  to  mind.  After 
wards,  when  we  stood  in  the  moonlight,  he 
looked  down  and  said  :  "  Little  Thistle-down, 


2Q  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

do  you  think  it  beautiful?" — Jack  always  is 

finding  pet  names  for  me. It  was  there, 

standing  in  the  moonlight,  we  had  our  talk. 
I  asked  Jack  if  the  pine  trees  ever  sang  to 
him.  Such  a  peaceful  look  came  over  his 
face !  He  did  not  reply  for  a  little  while — we 
were  quiet — it  was  all  unbroken  stillness — 
only  the  murmur  of  the  pines.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  they  didn't  seem  to  sigh  as  I  lis 
tened  to  them  with  Jack.  When  he  spoke, 
instead  ol  looking  at  me,  he  looked  up  right 
into  the  sky,  and  his  voice  was  soft,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself,  while  he  said  :  "  Go  forth 
and  stand  upon  the  mount  before  the  Lord — 
and  behold  the  Lord  passed  by,  and  a  great 
and  strong  wind  rent  the  mountains,  and 
broke  in  pieces  the  rocks  before  the  Lord ; 
but  the  Lord  was  not  in  the  wind  ;  and  after 
the  wind  was  an  earthquake,  and  after  the 
earthquake  a  fire,  and  after  the  fire  a  still 
small  voice."  Then  he  said  :  "  Annie,  will 
you  listen  to  the  '  still  small  voice' — will  you 
Celtic  now  —  not  waiting  to  be  frightened 
b/  the  earthquake — not  till  tried  by  the 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


21 


fire,  driven  by  the  wind ;  but  now — led  by  the 
goodness  of  God  ?  Will  you  listen  to  the  mes 
sage  the  evening  breeze  whispered — the  call 
that  comes  from  the  '  hereafter,'  where  the 
Master  is  preparing  the  many  mansions  ? 
Who  for,  Annie  ?  Not  for  the  waiting,  but 
the  watching  ones  ;  not  for  the  virgins  that 
hold  the  golden  lamps,  but  for  those  whose 
lamps  are  '  filled  and  burning.' ' 

Does  Jack  mean  just  what  grandpapa 
meant — that  I  have  a  golden  lamp,  but  noth 
ing  to  make  a  flame  with  ?  I  never  thought 
before  of  that  word  preparing.  Heaven  has 
always  seemed  ready,  and  we  the  ones  be 
ing  made  ready.  When  I  told  Jack,  he  said 
he  used  to  feel  so ;  but  he  says  now  it  is 
a  great  help  to  him  to  feel,  while  we  here 
are  trying  to  make  our  earth-stained  hearts 
pure  and  more  fit  for  the  many-mansioned 
home,  up  there  Christ,  too,  is  all  the  time 
"  preparing  a  place"  for  us.  I  think  it  must 
be  beautiful  to  feel  so. 

Jack  said  he  thought,  over  the  golden  gate 
that  leads  to  the  New  Jerusalem,  the  motto 


22 


SUM1TER  DEIFT-WOOD. 


would  be,  "  Be  thou  faithful  unto  death,  and 
1  will  give-  thee  a  crown  of  life."  Then  he 
told  me  so  much  about  the  crown — and  those 
long  ago  days  when  Greek  and  Roman, 
athlete,  poet  and  philosopher,  strove  for  the 
crown  of  honor.  The  palm,  olive,  and  pine 
wreath,  the  ever-green  laurel  for  the  poet- 
brow — only  a  twisted  coronal  from  the  trees 
of  time,  a  wreath  of  perishing-  leaves — they 
strove  for,  seeking  some  visible  type  of  the 
honor  their  well  doing  had  won.  And  so 
we  came  to  speak  of  "  the  crown  incorrupti 
ble,  and  that  fades  not  away."  Jack  says  so 
many  things  I  never  thought  about  before. 
Faithful — the  word  that  begins  the  verse 
that  he  calls  heaven's  portal  text,  and  that 
leads  to  the  crown  end  ;  he  calls  it  the  double 
word.  Faith  alone,  he  says,  is  incomplete, 
but  Faith-full  tells  of  the  heart  so  full  of  trust 
not  one  little  place  is  left  for  doubt.  Faith 
ful,  not  only  for  life,  which"  is  the  entrance 
to  immortality,  but  Faithful  for  that  hour 
which  is  the  heart's  death.  I  suppose  he 
meant  by  heart's  death  all  sorts  of  earthly 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  2* 

disappointments  and  trials.  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  have  to  know  them  ?  I  don't  believe 
I  understand  very  well  now,  and  I  was  afraid 
to  ask  Jack.  Did  he  mean  that  only  as  we 
lay  down  ourselves —  I  mean  our  natural  life, 
and  learn  to  know  a  higher,  purer,  better,  by 
the  communing  of  our  souls  with  the  spir 
itual — we  can  really  know  life?  I  wonder 
whether  I  shall  ever  be  a  real  Christian,  like 
Jack  ?  Christian  f — that  would  mean  to  have 
a  "Christ-like"  soul,  and  Christ  laid  down 
His  life  for  others.  It  seems  so  hard  to  me 
to  give  up  ever  so  little  a  thing,  even  for 
papa  or  Fred.  Dear  Aunt  Mary,  she  could 
tell  me  all  about  laying  down  one's  life,  for 
she  is  always  doing  kind  deeds ;  but  I  think 
before  she  began  to  do  for  us,  she  must  have 
been  called  to  some  great  laying-down  serv 
ice — all  for  Christ's  sake ;  and  so  He  sent,  as 
a  smile  to  rest  on  her,  the  blessing  of  pa 
tience  and  goodness,  and  that  is  why  we  all 
love  her  so  well. 

Out  there  in  the  moonlight  I  tried  to  tell 
Jack  something  of  the  vague,  undefined  ques- 


24  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

tionings  that  come  to  me — the  many  things 
I  can't  understand,  and  all  the  beautiful 
things  I  catch  gleams  of.  He  said  every  one 
felt  so  ;  only  some  expressed  it,  and  others 
never  put  it  into  words;  and  he  said  he 
would  make  a  garland  of  moonbeams,  caught 
from  many  hearts,  for  me.  I  told  him  I 
thought  it  was  more  like  a  twilight  girdle, 
because  every  verse  he  repeated  from  the 
poet's  songs  had  a  shadow  of  dimness  in 
them.  I  was  so  glad  when  he  chose  from 
Tennyson  those  words  which  echo  the  soul's 
want,  as  it  dashes  on  the  shores  of  the 
mysterious  ocean  of  time,  and  then  back 
ward  glides,  breaking  on  the  "  Rock  of 
Ages,"  that  reverberates  with  the  answer 
echo  —  "Peace,  be  still!"  I  never  should 
have  thought  all  this,  unless  Jack  had  half 
said  it  before  he  began  the  verses. 

"Strong  Son.  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 
Believing,  where  we  cannot  prove  ! 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

"  Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust ; 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why  ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die, 
And  thou  hast  made  him  ;  thou  art  just. 

"  Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou  ; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

"  Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 

They  have  their  day,  and  cease  to  be; 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

"  We  have  but  faith ;  we  cannot  know ; 
For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 
And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness;  let  it  grow. 

"  Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell, 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 
May  make  one  Music,  as  before. 


"  But  vaster  " 


I  cannot  tell  why,  but  these  lines  always 
are  linked  in  my  mind  with  a  scrap  from 
Schiller,  though  they  are  not  one  bit  alike : 


26  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

"  Listening,  he  loved  the  voice  of  stars  to  hear, 
Which  to  the  no  less  ever-living  sense, 
Made  music  mystic,  yet  through  mystery  clear." 

Jack  repeats  poetry  so  beautifully ! — I  sup 
pose  it  is  because  he  goes  behind  the  words, 
and  finds  the  heart.  I  think  he  forgot  all 
about  me ;  for  half  to  himself  he  began  the 
dear  little  verses  from  Jean  Ingelow,  the 
sweet  woman  singer.  I  am  sure  he  could 
not  have  meant  them  for  my  moonbeam 
garland,  for  they  are  all  twilight  words : 

"  Thou  for  whom  life's  veil  unlifted 
Hangs,  whom  warmest  valleys  fold, 
Lift  the  veil,  the  charm  dissolveth ; 
Climb,  but  heights  are  cold. 

"  There  are  buds  that  fold  within  them, 
Closed  and  covered  from  our  sight, 
Many  a  richly-tinted  petal, 
Never  looked  on  by  the  light ; 
Fain  to  see  their  shrouded  faces, 
Sun  and  dew  are  long  at  strife, 
Till  at  length  the  sweet  buds  open — 
Such  a  bud  is  life. 


SUMMER  DKIFT-WOOD. 

"  When  the  rose  of  thine  own  being 
Shall  reveal  its  central  fold, 
Thou  shalt  look  within  and  marvel, 
Fearing  what  thine  eyes  behold ; 
What  it  shows  and  what  it  teaches 
Are  not  things  wherewith  to  part ; 
Thorny  rose  !  that  always  costeth 
Beatings  at  the  heart. 

"  Look  in  fear,  for  there  is  dimness, 
Ills  unshapen  float  anigh  ; 
Look  in  awe,  for  this  same  nature 
Once  the  godhead  deigned  to  die ; 
Look  in  love,  for  He  doth  love  it, 
And  its  tale  is  best  of  lore, 
Still  humanity  grows  dearer, 

Being  learned  the  more. 

"  Learn,  but  not  the  less  bethink  thee 
How  that  all  can  mingle  tears ; 
But  his  joy  can  none  discover, 
Save  to  them  that  are  his  peers. 
And  that  they  whose  lips  do  utter 
Language  such  as  bards  have  sung : 
Lo  !  their  speech  shall  be  to  many 
As  an  unknown  tongue. 

"Learn,  that  if  to  thee  the  meaning 
Of  all  other  eyes  be  shown, 
Fewer  eyes  can  ever  front  thee, 
That  are  skilled  to  read  thine  own. 


28  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

And  that  if  thy  love's  deep  current 
Many  another's  far  outflows, 
Then  thy  heart  must  take  forever, 
Less  than  it  bestows." 

I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  be  content  to  take 
less  than  I  bestow  ? — I  mean  in  love.  Other 
tangible  gifts  —  why,  I  think  they  are  all 
"  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive."  But 
love — it  is  so  beautiful  to  be  loved — to  be 
cared  for — just  as  papa  does  for  me.  I  was 
going  to  talk  to  Jack  about  it ;  but  we  heard 
papa  calling,  so  we  had  to  go  right  in. 


III. 

r  I  1HE  day  we  left  home,  Aunt  Mary  gave 
J-  me  a  little  package.  I  never  opened  it 
till  this  morning.  In  it  I  found  my  birthday 
gift  from  Auntie.  I  am  so  ashamed  I  did 
not  look  at  it  before  —  though  I  know  she 
will  excuse  me,  because  she  always  does.  I 
can't  think  how  I  forgot  it,  but  there  has 
been  so  much  to  do  and  think  about  all  the 
time.  I  found  in  the  tiny  box  the  dearest 
little  ring  imaginable  —  an  amethyst  sur 
rounded  by"  pearls.  Auntie  had  wrapped 
around  it  a  scrap  of  a  note,  and  I  will  copy  it 
—  I  do  lose  my  notes  so  —  and  I  always  want 
to  remember  this  : 


"Sweet  Annie,  wear  this  little  ring  to 


go  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

please  your  Auntie.  I  have  chosen  for  you, 
dear,  the  amethyst,  because  of  its  mystic 
meaning — the  little  stone  of  the  violet  eye, 
that  whispers,  '  Truth '  and  'Love ' — encircled 
with  pearls,  the  types  of  Purity.  Firmly  are 
they  bound  together  with  the  band  of  gold. 
Seek,  my  child,  to  find  a  voice  in  each  em 
blem  for  yourself.  As  in  the  sea-shell  lin 
gers  the  sound  of  the  sea,  so  about  the  pearls 
let  the  memory  of  the  '  pearl  of  great  price ' 
linger.  As  the  amethyst  smiles  up  at  you 
with  its  changing  light,  catch  a  thought  of 
the  Truth ;  and  then  you  will  know  of  the 
Love — even  the  'Love  of  God.'  And  the 
golden  ring,  may  it,  too,  have  a  whisper  of 
that  city  whose  streets  are  pure  gold." 

Dear  Auntie !  I  think  the  little  ring 

will  be  such  a  help  to  me.  I  have  put  it  on 
my  finger  always  to  wear.  Inside,  traced  in 
tiny  letters,  I  found  the  words  papa  had  cut 
in  the  white  marble  stone  that  marks  my 
mother's  grave — "  Blessed  are  the  pure  in 
heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." Grand- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  oj 

papa  says  that  promise  was  for  my  mother. 

Underneath,  quite  down,  almost  hidden 

by  the  grass  and  flowers,  are  also  cut  just 
the  question,  "  Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead  ?" 
— those  words  must  be  for  papa.  I  used  to 
wonder,  was  it  Aunt  Mary's  thought,  the 
putting  them  there.  One  day  I  asked  her, 
and  she  told  me,  then,  so  much  of  my  moth 
er — told  me  of  the  beautiful  hopes  that  made 
her  willing  and  glad  to  go — because  she  so 
loved  Jesus,  even  though  she  was  so  happy 
here  with  papa,  Fred,  and  baby  me.  And 
Auntie  said,  the  night  before  God  called 
her,  when  papa  carried  her,  for  the  last  time, 
in  his  strong  arms  from  the  couch  where  she 
spent  the  day  hours  to  the  bed,  his  courage 
gave  way,  and  he  cried  out  in  his  grief, 
"  Oh,  my  darling — my  darling — how  can  I 

live  without  you  ?" And  the  great  strong 

man  bowed  his  head  and  wept  like  a  little 
child.  Aunt  Mary  said,  mother  wept  too, 
but  not  for  long,  and  then  she  smoothed  the 
hair  from  papa's  forehead  with  her  thin  white 
fingers,  and  when  he  looked  up,  she  smiled 


22  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

at  him  with  a  smile  all  full  of  love,  softly 
saying,  "  Husband,"  (that  was  what  he  best 
liked  to  be  called,)  "  I  leave  you  our  children. 
For  their  sakes,  be  strong — for  the  sake  of 
Fred,  our  boy,  and  Annie,  our  baby,  the 
little  blossom  He  has  sent  to  be  a  flower  for 
you  when  your  garden  is  desolate — when 

your  '  Lily '  has  faded." And  then  her 

voice  grew  softer,  and  her  look  was  almost 
heavenly,  in  her  depth  of  love,  as  she  whis 
pered,  "  When  the  darkest  hour  comes — 

think,  *  Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead  ?'  " •  I 

suppose  that  was  why  papa  had  the  words 
cut  in  the  stone,  because  he  needed  them  so, 
those  first  days,  when  mother  left.  I  think 
he  felt  they  were  all  for  himself,  and  so  he 
had  them  down  where  hardly  any  eye  but 
his  would  see  them,  and  to  read  them  he 
would  need  to  stoop. I  wonder  if,  bow 
ing  down  there,  in  the  pride  and  strength  of 
his  early  manhood  —  (for  papa  was  young 
then) — kneeling  down  by  my  mother's  grave, 
pushing  aside  the  up-springing  grass,  to  read 
the  question,  "  Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead  ?" 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  33 

it  was  that  he  found  the  answer,  "  The  Lord 
loveth  whom  He  chasteneth,  and  scourgeth 
every  son  whom  He  receiveth." 

Aunt  Mary  said,  papa  didn't  know  the 
answer  when  mother  left  him,  and  she  was 
wont  to  say,  that  was  her  only  sorrow ;  but 
I  think  she  knows  now  he  has  found  it,  and 
up  there,  with  the  holy  angels,  is  glad  over 
him,  who  learned  through  his  deepest  sor 
row  his  greatest  joy. How  shall  I  learn 

to  really  know  Christ?  Will  this  Peace 
which  makes  them  all  so  happy,  and  that 
Jack  says,  "  passeth  understanding,"  come 
to  me  through  sorrow  ?  Why  can't  I  come 
now — in  the  joyous  time — and  listen  to  the 
voice  calling — the  "  still  small  voice" — that 
will  make  the  glad  gladder. 


IV. 

I  DO  like  so  much  being  among  the 
mountains.  The  hotel  is  crowded  full 
of  people  —  some  real  nice,  and  then  some 
"  dreadfully  common,"  as  Susie  Carrol  says. 
I  suppose  Aunt  Mary  would  say,  if  she  could 
read  that  last  sentence,  "  Take  care,  Annie, 
whom  you  call  the  '  dreadfully  common/  ' 
Now,  Aunt  Mary  don't  care  at  all  about 
dress,  fashion,  and  all  such  things ;  she  says 
there  is  something  back  of  the  dress  that 
makes  the  soul  rich  or  poor,  common  or  un 
common.  I  suppose  there  is.^ I  was 

talking  to  Jack  about  it,  and  he  said  Aunt 
Mar)'-  was  right,  and  then  he  reminded  me 
who  it  was  that  came  to  be  the  servant  of 
all — '-'  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  min- 

.  (34) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  35 

ister" —  who  it  was  that  lived  three-and- 
thirty  years  numbered  among  the  Galilean 

peasants. Jack  makes  the  story  of  the 

Cross  so  real — so  a  part  of  himself.  Christ 
seems  to  him  just  such  a  friend  as  papa  is 
to  me.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  feel  so? 
Now,  it  all  seems  so  far  away  and  visionary. 
Last  night  there  was  a  thunder  storm 
down  in  the  valley.  We  watched  the  light 
ning  flashes  below  us,  not  about  and  around 
us  as  when  we  are  in  the  storm  ;  and  the 
thunder  was  faint  and  soft,  as  it  echoed  from 
hill  to  hill,  and  soon  we  lost  its  sound  among 
the  mountains. 1  wonder  where  the  ech 
oes  go  ?  Do  they  die,  or  are  they  sounding 
on  for  evermore  ?  I  wonder  will  to-night's 
thunder  be  to-morrow  sounding  among  other 
hills  and  mountains?  I  wonder  if  all  the 
woods  and  wild  solitary  places  are  filled 
with  voices  of  the  bye  gone  ?  The  rippling 
of  the  tiny  brook — is  it  a  fairy  laugh  ?  The 
rustling  of  the  summer  breeze,  stirring  the 
leaf-laden  trees,  till  they  shimmer  in  the 
golden  sunlight — do  they  catch  their  mu- 


o6  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

sic  from  glad-hearted  children  ?  The  dash 
ing  sea  wave — is  it  a  wail  of  storm-tossed 

mariners  ? The  voices  of  nature — where 

do  they  come  from,  and  where  do  they  go  ? 

• 1  wish  I  could  choose  a  voice,  always 

to  live  and  sing  in.  When  I  said  so  last 
night,  they  all  laughed ;  and  that  professor 
we  girls  call  "  the  iron  grey  man,"  because 
he  is  so  stiff  and  formal,  said  :  "  Miss  Gray, 
you  should  study  Darwin's  Theory."  Who 
is  Darwin,  I  wonder  ?  I  never  heard  of  him 
before.  I  must  write  and  ask  Fred;  he'll 
know.  After  that  the  gentlemen  began  to 
talk  to  one  another,  and  we  girls  had  such 
a  good  time  by  ourselves.  We  talked  about 
voices,  and  the  sounds  we  would  like  to  be 
remembered  by.  I  chose  the  murmur  sound 
— the  whisper  of  the  summer  and  rest — the 
humming  of  the  insect,  busy  with  honey 
gathering — the  song  of  birds — rippling  wa 
ter — rustling  leaves — and  that  air  sound — • 
"  the  wind  blowing  where  it  listeth" — all 
these,  blended  in  with  the  silent  music  of 
green  fields,  shady  trees,  sunny  paths  broken 


SUMMEti  DRIFT-WOOD.  37 

by  shadows  from  the  cloud  land  above,  quiet 
water  reflecting  the  bank  side  beauty,  and 
the  great  intangible  " mystic  all"  that  makes 
the  complete  music  of  the  midsummer — the 

music  most  still  and  yet  most  voiceful. • 

I  am  so  glad  Miss  May  replied  to  my  words 
as  she  did,  choosing  out  of  my  many,  the 
few — "  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth, 
and  no  man  knoweth  whence  it  cometh,  or 
whither  it  goeth."  There  is  something  in 
her  voice  that  says  sometimes  so  much  more 
than  the  mere  words  reveal ;  and  it  was  so 
as  she  said :  "  And  the  wind  means  the  spirit. 
A  beautiful  thought  it  is,  '  the  spirit  going 
where  it  listeth' — not  waiting  for  man's  or 
dering  ;  but  like  the  evening  breeze,  cooling 
the  brow  of  peasant  and  beggar,  creeping 
into  prison  cell,  as  well  as  gilded  palace 
chamber — the  spirit  of  God  that  seeks  the 
humble  and  despised  as  well  as  the  great 
and  powerful." 

Then  we  talked  of  flowers,  and  some 

day  next  week  we  are  all  going  to  wear  a 
flower  with  a  thought  behind  it,  as  Carrie 


28  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

says —  a  mountain  flower.  What  will  be 
hidden  among  the  leaves  of  mine,  I  wonder? 
Jack  and  some  of  the  gentlemen  joined  us 
when  we  began  to  talk  of  flowers.  They  like 
our  plan.  There  is  an  old  gentleman  here 
who  reminds  me  of  grandpapa  ;  he  is  always 
saying  serious  things,  not  severely,  but  in 
such  a  happy  way  we  all  love  to  hear  him 
speak.  Last  night  when  he  heard  us  talking, 
he  came  and  patted  my  head,  just  as  grand 
papa  does,  saying :  "  Do  not  forget,  young 
folks,  '  Flowers  are  said  to  be  the  smiles  of 
God's  goodness.'  As  you  seek  the  flowers, 
remember  they  will  fade ;  but  take  the  smile _ 
into  your  hearts,  for  it  is  God's  smile  only 
that  will  keep  them  fresh  and  young."  And 
then  we  began  the  repetition  of  beautiful 
thoughts  that  others  have  expressed  in 
speaking  of  flowers.  We  made  a  sort  of 
play  of  it.  The  professor  gave  from  Rich- 
ter :  "  I  picked  up  in  the  choir  a  faded  rose 
leaf,  that  lay  under  the  feet  of  the  boys. 
Great  God !  what  had  I  in  my  hand  but  a 
small  leaf,  with  a  little  dust  upon  it ;  and 


SUMMED  DRIFT-WOOD.  35 

upon  the  small  fugitive  thing,  fancy  built  a 
whole  paradise  of  joy.  A  whole  summer 
dwelt  upon  this  leaf.  I  thought  of  the  beau 
tiful  day  when  the  boy  held  this  flower  in 
his  hand,  and  when,  through  the  church 
window,  he  saw  the  blue  heaven  and  the 
clouds  wandering  over  it ;  when  every  place 
in  the  cool  vault  was  full  of  sunlight,  and 
reminded  him  of  the  shadows  on  the  grass, 
from  the  over-flying  clouds.  Great  God  ! 
thou  scattereth  satisfaction  everywhere,  and 
giveth  to  every  one  joys  to  impart  again. 
Not  merely  dost  thou  invite  us  to  great  and 
exciting  pleasures,  but  thou  givest  to  the 
smallest  a  lingering  perfume." 

This  last  part  makes  me  think  so  much  of 
grandpapa.  "  Gather  the  little  things,"  he' 
says  most  every  day.  I  remember  once  he 
asked  our  minister  to  preach  a  "  New  Year" 
sermon  on  this  very  thought — "gather  up 
the  fragments ;"  and  I  planned  it  all  to  my 
self.  The  twelve  months — every  one  to  be 
filled,  not  only  with  the  visible  bounty  and 
care  of  the  Heavenly  Father ;  but  each  one 


4Q  SUJHTEB  DRIFT-WOOD. 

to  find  from  the  over-looked  places  —  the 
dark  corners  —  the  slighted,  disregarded 
minutes — a  fragment  for  the  day's  record ; 
and  then  the  binding  of  all  the  little  things 
together  till  they  formed  a  chapter,  full 
of  remembrances  for  the  month's  volume. 
Twelve  chapters  of  memories  that  would 
give,  when  the  year  ended,  of  just  the  frag 
ments  that  so  often  we  lose ;  and  if  we 
sought  to  fill  our  vacant  places  with  the  do 
ing  of  Christ's  commandments,  I  think  He 
would  help  us  to  fill  the  twelve  baskets  full ; 
though  I  suppose,  to  do  that,  we  would  need 
to  stoop  and  search  among  the  grass  blades — 
seek  for  them  way  down  "  amid  the  grassy 
places,"  where  "  the  little  things  "  hide.  I  told 
>  Jack  about  it,  and  he  said,  "  the  grass  places," 
where  the  multitude  wait  to  be  filled,  he 
thought  meant  the  humble  unpretending 
homes — the  homes,  scattered  all  the  land 
over,  like  the  green  grass ;  the  dwellings  of 
the  poor,  they  may  be  in  crowded  city 
streets,  or  in  quiet  country  villages,  nestling 
among  the  hills.  And  the  "  multitude,"  he 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  ^i 

calls  the  longing,  hungering  ones — all  ready 
to  hear  of  Him — waiting  even  in  "  compa 
nies,"  for  the  word  to  be  spoken.  And  then 
Jack  said :  "  Not  more  is  the  ordained  min 
ister  called  to  this  holy  task  than  the  low 
liest  of  Christ's  followers ;"  adding :  "Don't 
you  think,  Annie, '  the  five  loaves  and  the  two 
fishes,'  for  the  numberless  crowd,  are  like 
these  spoken  words.  Very  few,  very  simple, 
need  they  be — very  plain ;  only  the  '  Repent 
and  believe;'  only  the  telling,  '  God  sent  not 
His  son  to  condemn  the  world,  but  that  the 
world  through  Him  might  be  saved ' — tell 
ing  the  story  of  '  the  wonderful  love' — '  the 
unspeakable  gift'  —  'the  story  of  Calvary.' 
Ah !  one  little  glimpse  of  its  meaning,  Annie, 
contains  enough,  more  than  enough,  to  feed 
the  multitude ;  enough  to  fill  to  overflowing 
the  twelve  baskets  full,  with  fragments  of 
the  '  Bread  of  Life.' " 


V. 


I  WAS  too  tired  last  night  to  write  one 
half  of  the  "flower  talk"  and  pretty 
thoughts  that  were  given,  that  I  want  to  re 
member  ;  and  now  I  have  only  half  an  hour 
before  breakfast.  Well!  I  will  see  how"  much 
scribbling  I  can  do  in  that  time.  First,  1 
must  not  forget  that  dear  little  bit  on  the 
violet,  the  "  Pilgrim  Song,"  when  he  says  of 
the  tiny  blossoms — 

"  Love,  Pity,  Meekness,  these  are  they, 
The  violets  dim  and  mild." 

Another  chose  the  words  that  gave  rise 
to  this  song — "  Love  and  compassion  and 
meekness.  These  violets  grow  low,  and  are 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  43 

of  a  dark  color ;  yet  they  are  of  a  very  sweet 
and  diffusive  smell."  Then  some  one  repeated 
the  "  Heart's-ease  Piece ;"  and  Carrie  said 
so  beautifully,  "  A  Chaplet  of  Flowers,"  from 
Adelaide  P.roctor.  I  did  so  wonder  what 
papa  would  say,  I  forgot  to  think  for  my 
self;  but  he  was  all  ready,  and  told  of  the 
Persian  poet,  who  when  asked  by  the  phi 
losopher  Zender,  "  What  he  was  good  for?" 
replied:  "Of  what  use  is  a  flower?"  "A 
flower  is  good  to  smell,"  said  the  philoso 
pher.  "And  I  am  good  to  smell  it,"  replied 

the  poet. Every  one  laughed  at  papa's 

choice  ;  and  then  my  turn  came.  Just  for  a 
minute,  I  couldn't  think  of  any  thing ;  then 
I  remembered  some  words  from  Ruskin's 
"  Queens'  Gardens,"  Aunt  Mary  read  me 
the  week  before  1  left  home ;  and  I  had  read 
them  over  so  many  times,  I  know  them  by 
heart.  Jack  said  he  liked  them,  and  I  think 
papa  did,  too ;  but  I  don't  believe  they  were 
"  very  appropriate,"  as  Fred  would  say ; 
and  yet,  I  am  so  fond  of  the  thought,  I  will 
write  the  words  down  here,  just  after  papa's, 


44  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

and  then  Jack's  will  come  right  after  mine, 
for  he  sat  next  to  me ;  so  I  had  a  safe  little 
place  between  papa  and  Jack,  even  if  I  did 
not  do  very  well.  "  The  path  of  a  good 
woman  is  strewn  with  flowers  ;  but  they  rise 
behind  her  steps,  not  before  them.  '  Her  feet 
have  touched  the  meadows  and  left  the  dai 
sies  rosy.'  Flowers  flourish  in  the  garden 
of  one  who  loves  them.  A  pleasant  magic 
would  it  be,  if  you  could  flush  flowers  into 
brighter  bloom  by  a  kind  look  upon  them ; 
nay,  more,  if  a  look  had  the  power,  not  only 
to  cheer,  but  to  guard  them.  This  you 
would  think  a  great  thing  ?  And  do  you  think 
it  not  a  greater  thing,  that  all  this,  and  more 
than  this,  you  can  do  for  fairer  flowers  than 
these — flowers  that  could  bless  you  for  hav 
ing  blessed  them,  and  will  love  you  for  hav 
ing  loved  them — flowers  that  have  eyes  like 
yours,  and  thoughts  like  yours,  and  lives 

like  yours." 1  am  afraid  mine  was  too 

sober  a  thought ;  every  one  almost  looked 
as  though  it  were  ;  and  Mrs.  Morgan  said : 
"  Annie,  you  are  the  oddest  girl ;  one  min- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  45 

ute  full  of  fun  and  frolic ;  and  the  next,  sober 
as  a  judge."  Laughingly  turning  to  papa, 
she  added  :  "  Sometimes  I  am  half  inclined 
to  be  vexed  with  the  child,  she  says  such 
grave  things ;  but  before  one  can  say  a  word, 
she  is  straightway  little  merry  Annie,  again." 
Am  I  contradictory  ?  I  asked  Jack ;  and  he 
said,  No ;  he  didn't  think  so ;  though  serious 
views  of  life  might  seem  to  careless  observ 
ers  very  near  and  present  to  me ;  which 
they  could  hardly  understand,  because  I 
seemed  so  full  of  joyousness,  too.  He  sup 
posed  it  came  from  my  having  been  so  much 
with  Aunt  Mary,  papa,  and  grandpapa,  all 
of  whom  had  known  sorrow  ;  and  so,  uncon 
sciously,  I  had  caught  a  reflection  of  their 
feelings  and  thoughts.  I  don't  believe  hardly 
any  one  besides  me  listened  to  Jack,  for  they 
had  already  begun  to  talk  of  other  things. 
I  was  a  little  bit  glad  of  that.  I  like  to 
catch  his  words  through  the  hum  of  many 
voices.  It  always  seems  to  me  when  I 
hearken  to  Jack  speak  at  such  times,  just 
like  the  deep,  restful,  bass  notes  of  the 


46  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

organ,  contrasted  with  th'e  light  quickly- 
changing  treble  air.  He  said  :  "  A  flower  is 
more  precious  than  gold  or  jewel :  not  sim 
ply  as  precious,  but  more  precious ;  just  be 
cause  it  has  its  own  intrinsic  value,  and  be 
cause  it  will  so  soon  wither.  Its  withered 
leaves  are  more  treasured  than  a  costly  gem, 
and  more  sacred,  because  they  have  not  two 
kinds  of  value,  but  only  one.  Such  gifts  are 
as  disembodied  spirits — all  spirit  and  pure." 
As  he  ended,  he  took  the  little  cluster  of 
harebells  from  his  button-hole,  where  Carrie 
had  pinned  them,  and  gave  them  to  me. 
When  I  came  up  into  my  room  last  night, 
they  were  all  faded  and  drooping.  But — I 
don't  know  why  —  I  didn't  want  to  throw 
them  away,  quite  then.  It  seemed  so  lonely 
to  toss  flowers  that  bloomed  in  the  sunshine 
out  into  the  night-dark — and  this  morning — 

well ! 1  think  I  like   the   flowers   Jack 

gives  me,  whether  they  are  fresh  or  faded. 
I  wonder  if  it  is  because  he  always  puts  a 
tl.  ought  right  between  their  leaves  ?  Then 
I  like  the  harebell,  because  it  is  the  flower 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  47 

Carrie  has  chosen  to  wear ;  and  I  do  love  her 
dearly,  better  and  better  every  day.  I  am 
so  glad  she  is  to  have  these  graceful  little  blue 
flowers ;  they  grow  in  such  rich  clusters,  and 
are  so  fragile,  and  yet  so  fearless  in  the  rock 

f  niches  which  they  choose  for  homes,  over 
hanging  the  precipices — never  frightened  by 
the  dreary  depth  below,  but  catching  their 
color  from  above.  Blue  flowers  always  seem 
to  me  to  have  strayed  from  heaven,  not 
wanting  one  earth  tint  to  blend  with  their 
sky-caught  blue. 

Fanny  Jones  is  to  wear  the  wild  rose. 

I  wanted  that,  'tis  such  a  happy,  glad  blos 
som,  not  one  bit  like  its  proud  sister  of  the 
garden,  but  growing  in  all  wild  places,  smil 
ing  up  at  one  from  dusty  road-sides  and 
shady  nooks,  with  the  same  wide-open  eye 
of  trust.  I  couldn't  help  telling  Jack  I 
wanted  the  wild  rose  for  mine.  Will  Mor 
gan  heard  me,  and  he  said :  "  Why,  Annie, 

f  it  has  thorns,  which  prick  and  wound  when 
you  gather  the  flower.  Would  you  want  to 
prick  and  wound?"  Now,  Will  knows  I 


48  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

wouldn't.  But,  then,  don't  all  people  have 
thorns  ?  And  as  we  always  have  to  choose 
the  little  open  spaces,  when  we  gather  the 
wild  roses,  just  so,  I  think,  we  have  to  do 
with  most  every  one — avoid  the  little  sharp 
points  that  grandpapa,  (because  he  always 
likes  to  excuse  people  when  they  do  wrong,) 
calls  "traits  of  character;"  adding,  in  his 
kind  way,  "  the  hardest  temptations  to  over 
come.  Let  us  be  charitable  in  judging, 
child."  Almost  every  one  has  some  thorns, 
it  seems  to  me  ;  sometimes  it  is  only  a  quick 
look ;  sometimes  a  half  harsh  word ;  some 
times —  oh  dear!  every  one  knows  what 
makes  the  thorns  on  so  many  of  us.  And 
yet  there  are  some  people  who  do  seem  only 
blossoms.  There  is  Aunt  Mary ;  I  never  saw 
her  cross.  I  wonder  if  she  ever  thinks 
wrong  things  ?  I  am  sure  she  never  does 
them ;  and  this  makes  me  think  of  that  hymn 
she  says  to  grandpapa,  almost  every  Sunday 
evening,  sitting  in  the  twilight : 

'  By  the  thorn  road  and  none  other, 
Is  the  mount  of  visLan  won. 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

Tread  it  without  shrinking,  brother ; 
Jesus  trod  it — press  thou  on." 


49 


She  says  these  words  so  from  her  heart. 
What  thorn-road,  I  wonder,  has  she  travel 
led  ?  What  flowers  have  been  gathered  by 
her,  I  wonder,  with  torn  fingers  ?  The  sor 
rows,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  she  has 
turned  all  inward ;  and  so  they  hurt  no  one 
but  herself,  and  I  suppose  the  being  hurt, 
quite  in  her  own  heart — in  her  own  life,  is 
what  makes  Auntie  so  gentle,  and  careful 
never  to  wound  any  one,  even  by  so  little  a 
thing  as  a  look.  And  the  rough  path  she 
trod,  I  know  always  it  was  with  the  sweet 
assurance  that  Jesus  was  right  before  her, 
and  that  He  was  leading  her  by  it  to  the 
"  vision  mount."  I  wish  I  could  be  like  Aunt 
Mary,  but  I  don't  want  to  have  a  rough  road 

to  travel.     I  wonder  if  I  must  ? But  there 

goes  the  breakfast-bell. 


VI. 

I  WAS  very  glad  when  Jack  said,  this 
morning,  he  would  choose  a  flower  for 
me  to  wear  to-night.  I  am  so  slow  ;  all  the 
girls  had  chosen  just  in  a  minute,  while  I 
was  thinking  what  mine  should  be.  Ah! 
grandpapa,  grandpapa,  will  some  one  always 
gather  the  wood,  while  your  little  Annie  is 
looking  at  the  green  boughs  ? 

That  beautiful  Mrs.  D.,  from  Phila 
delphia,  is  to  wear  the  pond  lily — the  queen 
flower — and  Lucy  is  to  have  the  wilcl  cle 
matis  twined  and  garlanded  about  her. 
Miss  F.,  from  New  York,  chose  the  golden 
rod.  Will  Morgan  said  "  her  choice  was  a 
satire  on  herself,  as  well  as  her  city."  I 
could  n't  help  laughing,  when  he  said  in  his 

(5°) 


SFMMJSR  DRIFT-WOOD.  ej 

droll  way—"  Gold  !  gold  !"  but  I  told  him  I 
thought  it  was  too  bad  of  him  to  make  fun 
of  Miss  F.,  and  that  all  New  York  girls 
were  n't  so ;  but  he  would  make  fun  just  the 
same,  and  said :  "  Yes,  they  are,"  adding, 
"  all  but  you  and  Carrie,  perhaps ;  and  you 
don't  do  New  York  credit — you  both  are 
like  Mrs.  Stowe's  Topsey.  If  any  stranger 
should  ask,  '  where  did  Miss  Gray  and  Miss 
Morgan  come  from,  he  would  receive  the 
reply — '  Oh,  they  growed.'  " 

We  asked  Miss  May  to  wear  a  flow 
er.  She  is  so  quiet,  I  didn't  believe  she 
would  want  to ;  but  she  seemed  very  much 
pleased,  and  said,  "  Yes,  indeed."  Some  of 
the  girls  say  she  is  real  poor ;  and  she  wears 
nothing  but  a  plain  alpaca  frock  all  the  time, 
and  such  a  stiff  little  linen  collar ;  but  I  am 
sure  she  is  a  lady.  Some  one  told  papa  she 
teaches  school ;  and  Jack  says  he  thinks  she 
writes  letters  for  a  newspaper.  Every  few 
days  she  sends  away  a  great  yellow  envel 
ope,  and  at  dinner  time,  when  the  mail  is 
distributed,  she  always  receives  a  paper. 


DRIFT-WOOD. 
j~ 

She  never  seems  to  care  for  it,  only  looks 
tired  when  she  breaks  the  seal. 

I  think  it  must  be  so  hard  to  write 

for  money. I  never  could  write  a  book, 

of  course ;  but  then  I  am  so  stupid.  What 
could  I  do  if  papa  should  lose  all  his  money, 
and  Fred  couldn't  work  for  me?  Oh,  dear 
me !  I  don't  know.  It  must  be  dreadful  to 
write  for  other  people ;  and  pen  and  ink 
words  always  seem  so  cold  and  unsympa 
thetic.  Why,  sometimes,  when  I  lay  aside 
this  little  book,  which  is  for  no  eyes  but  my 
own,  I  feel  as  though  a  stranger  was  looking 
at  me  from  the  page  traced  over  with  lines 
— lines  that  only  half  tell  my  real  meaning. 
But,  to  write  for  others,  not  just  for  one's 
self,  I  think  it  must  be  so  hard ;  and  then 
when  one  had  spent  long  hours  in  making 
a  book,  to  have  some  one  pull  it  all  to 
pieces — treating  it  as,  when  I  was  a  child,  I 
used  to  treat  the  field  daisies,  pulling  off 
their  leaves  and  naming  them ;  calling  one, 
"  rich  man,"  the  next,  "  poor  man,"  and  so 
on  through  the  list — "  beggar  man — thief — 


SUMMER  DPJFT-WOOD.  53 

doctor  —  lawyer  —  merchant  —  priest ;"  and 
then,  when  every  leaf  was  pulled,  I  used  to 
toss  the  poor  little  flower  away,  and  never 
heed  the  golden  centre,  the  heart  left  alone 
on  the  stem,  even  when  Its  fringed  beauty 
of  white  ) eaves  was  all  destroyed  by  my 
ruthless  hands.  I  know  if  ever  I  wrote  a 

book,   it   would   be   treated  just   so. I 

would  send  it  out  with  my  "  precious  things" 
right  in  the  centre — the  golden  heart  place ; 
and  then  I  would  put  my  light  fancies — my 
twilight  dreams,  like  the  white  leaves,  fring 
ed  about  the  centre  ;  and  I  would  say  :  "  Go, 
little  flower.  For  those  who  seek,  perhaps" 
(I  know  I  would  always  remember  to  say, 
"  perhaps")  "  you  have  a  golden  heart.  For 
those  who  just  gather  you  to  toss  aside,  you 
have  the  pure  white  leaves; — little  tablet 
leaves,  traced  every  one  with  an  inscription." 
And  again,  I  would  say,  "perhaps"  "  They, 
tossing  you  away,  will  hear  the  whisper, 
which  sounds  even  in  the  very  '  little 
things.' '  And  I  would  sit  at  home,  in  the 

sweet  summer  twilight,  and  wonder  where 
5* 


tA  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

my  daisy  was — wonder  who  would  read  its 
meaning.  I  know  papa  would  smile  at  it, 
and  be  pleased.  Jack,  he  would  smile,  too ; 
and  some  little  scraps,  I  think  he  would 
really  like ;  not  only  because  I  wrote  them 
— but,  then,  I  would  be  afraid,  to  let  Jack 

see  it. Fred,  he'd  just  laugh  at  me,  and 

say :  "  School-girl  nonsense,  Nanny."  Aunt 
Mary — why,  she  never  sees  any  thing  but 
good :  and  yet,  I  think,  with  her  "  Well 
done"  she  would  say:  "  Remember,  Annie  ; 
make  life,  not  a  dream,  but  an  action."  Dear 
old  grandpapa,  he  would  smile,  with  the 
tears  in  his  eyes — the  rainbow  smile,  I  used 
to  call  it — and  then  he  would  say :  "  When 
did  all  these  things  come  into  your  little 
head,  child  ?"  But  I  wouldn't  care  so  much 
for  grandpapa's  praise,  because  he  always 
likes  what  I  do,  just  as  papa  does.  I  think 
it  would  be  beautiful  to  write  so — only  for 
the  loving  eyes  and  hearts  of  home,  who 
would  call  my  simple  little  daisy  a  "  star 
flower." 

I  wonder  if  Miss  May  has  people  to  smile 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  55 

at  her,  and  be  pleased,  when  she  tries  to  do 
well?  I  hope  she  has.  Or  whether  she  has 
to  brave  the  world  without  the  "  home  love" 
— the  cold  critical  world,  that  one  must 
brave,  I  suppose,  if  they  write  for  money. 
Why,  just  think  of  sending  written  pages 
forth,  all  alone,  and  some  harsh  man  taking 
them  in  his  hand,  as  I  used  to  do  the  little 
flower,  and  pulling  off  one  tiny  leaf,  and  then 
another,  calling  one  a  "poor  man/'  and  the 
next,  "a  beggar."  And  then  would  come 
some  formal  critic,  perhaps  dubbing  one 
"  thief."  How  dreadful  that  would  be !  And 
yet  I  know,  if  I  should  write,  I  should  put 
in  thoughts  that  belonged  to  others,  never 
meaning  at  all  to  steal  them.  I  don't  see 
how  one  could  altogether  help  it,  because, 
always,  the  books  we  love  best  we  take 
right  into  our  hearts,  just  as  the  gardener 
takes  the  little  shoots  and  binds  them  on  to 
the  tree,  grafting  the  one  with  the  other,  till 
the  two  are  blended  so  closely,  they  call  each 
other  one.  And  nobody,  but  some  little 
school  girls,  or  old  people,  ever  calling  one 


0  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

leaf,  a  "  rich  man." Oh  !  I  couldn't  write 

a  book.  It  would  be  so  hard  not  to  mind 
the  critics,  the  fault-finders;  and  I  know 
there  would  be  so  much  to  find  fault  with. 
But,  then,  after  all,  I  think  I  would  rather 
have  the  real  young  people,  and  the  tired 
old  people,  like  my  story,  than  any  other 
readers.  The  young  are  so  much  nearer 
the  starting  place — and  that  is  heaven ;  and 
the  old,  we  know,  are  close  to  the  other  side, 

down  by  the  river  bank. I  do  love  old 

people,  I  mean,  peaceful,  happy,  old  people, 
like  grandpapa. 

I  wonder  if  life  seems  to  others,  as  it  does 
to  me,  a  mountain  to  climb,  with  never  a 
pausing  place  on  the  mountain  top,  but 
straightway  the  downward  descent  to  begin. 

1  told  this  to  Jack,  and  he  said  1  was  wrong ; 
that  life,  to  the  Christian,  was  always  "  up 
ward  going ;"  that,  to  the  followers  of  Christ, 
there  was  no  soul  old   age;  always,  they 
were  the  "  children  of  God."     "  They  that 
wait    upon    the    Lord    shall    renew    their 
strength ;  they  shall  mount  up  with  wings 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  57 

as  eagles ;  they  shall  run  and  not  be  weary, 
and  they  shall  walk,  and  not  faint."  Because, 
"  they  trust  in  the  Lord,  who  redeemeth 
their  life  from  destruction.  Who  crowneth 
them  with  loving-kindness  and  tender  mer 
cies.  Who  satisfies  their  mouth  with  good 

things ;  so  that  their  youth  is  renewed." 

This  was  what  Jack  said ;  but  it  does  not 
quite  seem  so  to  me.  We  the  young,  the  val 
ley  dwellers,  look  up.  We  catch  the  glad 
sunlight,  dancing  on  the  tree  tops  above  us. 
We  hear  the  far-off  song  of  the  laughing 
water,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock.  We  see 
the  roadway,  travelled  and  worn  by  other 
feet  than  ours.  Flowers  are  blooming  on 
its  banks ;  and  the  rough  places,  that  they 
tell  us  are  there,  are  hidden  (till  we  come  to 
them)  by  the  soft  green  grass  of  the  spring 
time.  The  morning  freshness  we  know  we 
must  exchange  for  the  noon-day  heat ;  and 
that  wil}  give  place  to  the  evening  chill — 
the  chill  that  heralds  the  night  coming. 
But,  til]  we  are  in  it,  I  don't  think  we  mind 
much.  And  yet,  I  don't  understand  Jack's 


eg  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

saying :  "  If  one  loves  Jesus,  he  never  grows 
old ;"  when  almost  all  have  this  hard  path 
to  journey.  If  I,  really  loved  Christ,  would 
I  feel  as  Jack  does  ? 

I  wonder  why,  to  some  young  peo 
ple,  life  begins  right  away  to  be  a  hill  to 
climb,  as  I  know  it  is  to  Miss  May  ?  I  won 
der  why  God  sends  to  some,  as  He  has 
done  to  me,  only  bright,  glad  things,  making 
life  a  summer  day,  with  never  a  discord ; 
and  then  others,  they  find  the  jar — the  tune 
less  chord,  so  soon.  I  asked  Jack,  and  he 
looked  sad,  as  he  replied  :  "  Annie,  the  only 
answer  is,  He  knows  what  is  best  for  all,  and 

that  ought  to  be  enough  ?" That  queer 

looking  man,  the  minister,  who  comes  from 
the  valley  below  the  mountain,  was  stand 
ing  by  ;  and  when  he  heard  my  question,  he 
joined  us,  and  said :  "  Miss  Gray,  shall  I  tell 
you  a  little  verse,  that  has  often,  for  me, 
answered  your  question  ?"  I  replied  :  "  Oh, 
yes,  please  do  ;"  and  he  said  :  "  For  now 
we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly,  byt  then  face 
to  face."  Link  to  this  golden  promise,  this 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  59 

silver  line,  from  a  little  hymn  I  learned  long 
ago: 

"  He  gives,  or  He  withholds  in  love  ; 
In  this  one  truth  we  rest." 

I  don't  know  why,  he  made  me  feel  just 
like  crying ;  he  looked  as  though  it  had  been 
so  hard  for  him  to  say  it  always.  I  don't 
mean  to  say,  for  that  is'nt  hard  ;  but  I  mean 
to  really  feel  it  all  through,  and  in  his  heart. 
And  then  I  felt  so  ashamed,  because  we  girls 
had  laughed  ever  so  much  at  him.  He  is  so 
funny-looking.  Susie  Carroll  calls  his  coat, 
"  one  of  Noah's  garments,  cut  over  by  a 
pilgrim  great-grandmother.''  She  says,  he 
looks  like  a  "  Mayflower"  relic.  And  then 
we  have  all  called  him,  the  "  country  broth 
er."  I  am  so  sorry  I  joined  in  the  sport- 
making.  Why  do  I  laugh  at  such  things  ? 

Almost  always,  I  find  the  very  people  I 
laugh  about,  are  the  "  rich  souls,"  as  Aunt 
Mary  calls  them. 


VII. 

TACK  and  Mr.  Hubbel  (that's  the  name 
*-*  of  the  minister)  had  such  a  long  talk 
about  that  verse — "  Seeing  through  a  glass 
darkly."  I  am  glad  I  was  with  them,  for 
they  said  so  much  I  never  thought  of  before. 
Won't  it  be  wonderful  when  we  reach  the 
there  and  see  it  all  clearly ;  when  we  shall 
"  know,  even  as  we  are  known."  Known — 
that  applies  to  us  now,  and  means  that  God's 
eye  knows  and  sees  all.  I  wish  I  could  re 
member  it  all  the  time,  but  I  do  forget  so. 

Jack  repeated  to  Mr.  Hubbel  what 

we  had  been  saying  about  growing  old,  and 
life-climbing.  He  thinks  just  as  Jack  does, 
that  the  Christian  is  always  young.  As  I 
listened  to  them,  it  reminded  me  of  one  day 
(60) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  gj 

last  winter,  when  I  asked  grandpapa  "  why 
his  hair  was  so  white?"  I  remembered  just 
how  he  smiled,  as  he  said  r  "  Child,  the  sun 
shine  and  the  storm,  the  snow  and  rain,  sum 
mer  heat  and  winter  cold,  the  life  pilgrim 
must  know ;  and  they  choose  for  their  marks, 
little  Annie,  the  white  hair,  the  wrinkled 
face,  that  we  call  old  age  signs.  Some  are 
the  types  of  sorrow  and  anguish ;  some  the 
silvery  threads  that  have  come  'mid  days  of 
gladness  and  pleasure.  It's  a  hard  climb, 
my  child — sunshine  and  shadow ;  but  at  the 
darkest,  always  He  has  fulfilled  His  prom 
ise  :  '  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light.' 
Only,  child,  we  must  have  the  eye  of  faith, 
to  trace  the  letters,  for  they  sometimes  seem 
hidden  far  away  in  the  folds  of  His  curtain 
of  providence." 

And  yet,  though  grandpapa  spoke  of  hav 
ing  known  "sorrow  and  anguish,"  when  I 
recall  his  happy,  peaceful  face,  his  dear  kind 
ways,  his  loving  judgments,  his  life  surely 
proves  what  Jack  and  Mr.  Hubbel  said  — 
"  The  Christian  never  grows  old." 


62  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

I  told  grandpapa's  words  to  Jack,  and  we 
wondered  what  his  sorrow  had  been.  I 
think  Aunt  Mary  knows  ;  but  whatever  it 

was,  he  is  all  peace  now. Peace  !     It  is, 

I  think,  almost  the  most  beautiful  earth  word 
we  have.  Jack  calls  it  "  Christ's  seal  word." 
He  says  Ruskin  writes :  "  The  death  bequest 
of  Christ  to  man  is  Peace."  And  then  Jack 
told  me  it  seemed  to  him  when  we  gave 
our  hearts  to  Christ,  He  wrote  upon  them, 

"  Peace,"  not  "  Rest." I  never  thought 

of  it  so  before.  I  always  read  the  verse, 
"  Come  unto  me  and  I  will  give  you  rest," 
as  an  invitation  to  come  now  to  Jesus.  But 
Jack  says  he  does  not  read  it  so.  "  Rest," 
he  says,  "remaineth  for  the  people  of  God" 
— the  blessed  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord. 
"  Yea,  saith  the  spirit,  they  rest  from  their 
labors."  .  But  peace,  the  peace  of  God,  which 
passeth  understanding,  of  which  Christ  said, 
"  Peace  I  leave  with  you  —  my  peace  I  give 
unto  you,"  belongs  to  us,  for  these  pilgrim 

days. The  peace   promises,  Jatk  says, 

form  to  him  the  richest,  most  treasured,  of 


SUMMER  DRIFT-  WOOD.  63 

all  the  constellations  of  Bible  promises. 

These  Bible  words  to  Jack  are  like  clusters 
of  most  precious  jewels ;  so  precious,  I  think 
he  keeps  them  close  to  him  all  the  time,  just 
as  we  never  like  to  have  the  things  we  care 
for  most  away  from  us,  fearing  they  may  be 
lost  or  mislaid. 

I  do  believe  grandpapa  knows  every 

peace  word  the  whole  Bible  through ;  and 
it  will  be  a  peace  promise  that  will  can  him 
home,  I  know.  Sometimes  he  looks  so  near 
going ;  and  I  think  he  will  be  glad  when  the 
time  comes.  Jack  says,  "  no  call  is  like  in 
beauty  to  the  Christian's  Home-call."  "  Just 
think,  Annie,"  he  said  to  me,  "  up  in  heaven 
it  sounds  first — the  voice  of  Christ — '  Come 
to  me.  I  will  give  thee  rest.'  And  the  an 
gels,  hearkening  to  the  voice,  echo  the  words 
through  and  through  the  '  heavenly  land/ 
The  angels  that  love  the  '  still  waters  and 
the  green  pastures/  they  hear  the  Master 
calling  to  the  earth-tired  soul,  '  Come  to  me !' 
and,  catching  the  sound,  softly  they  sing,  of 
the  '  pure  river  of  the  water  of  life,  clear  as 


64  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

crystal ;'  chorussing  the  song  with,  '  Ho 
every  one  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the 
waters ;'  '  Let  him  that  is  athirst,  come.'  And 
the  great  cloud  of  witnesses,  they,  too,  catch 
the  strain,  and  '  Fear  thou  not/  they  sing, 
'  Looking  unto  Jesus.'  I  don't  think  the 
way  can  be  very  dark,  if  we  hear  this  heav 
enly  music.  I  wonder  why  those  who  really 
believe  ever  call  it  dark,  when  Christ  has 
said,  '  I  am  the  light,'  and  when  He  has 
promised,  '  Lo,  I  am  with  you  always.'  And 
then  it  is  the  path  that  leads  them  to  be, 
'  forever  with  the  Lord.' >: 

I  asked  Jack  whether  he  thought  unto 

the  little  children  would  be  granted  that 
most  blessed  of  songs,  "  I  know  that  my  Re 
deemer  liveth."  He  said,  "  No  ;"  he  thought 
that  would  belong  to  those  who  had  come 
through  great  tribulation  —  those  who  had 
"  washed  their  robes  white  in  the  blood  of 
the  Lamb."  He  better  liked  to  think  that 
the  children  would  sing,  in  their  sweet, 
heaven-taught  voices :  "  He  giveth  His  be 
loved  sleep ;"  and  sleep  means  Peace. 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  gq 

But  I  have  forgotten  all  about  what 

I  began  to  write.  I  never  mean  to  write  all 
these  things  in  my  book ;  but  I  get  thinking 
them  over,  and  so  I  put  them  down  here. 
I  only  meant  to  tell  about  my  "  flower,"  that 
Jack  chose  for  me  to  wear.  He  was  so  good 
about  it.  All  day  long  he  was  off,  and  Car 
rie  came  into  my  room,  and  ran  away  with 
my  white  frock,  and  did  not  bring  it  back 
till  just  before  tea-time.  It  was  very  pretty 
— festooned  with  delicate  fern  sprays  and 
grasses.  I  think  it  was  so  kind  in  her  to  do 
it  for  me.  She  never  seems  to  think  about 
herself.  When  the  girls  said  it  was  beauti 
ful,  she  only  laughed  and  replied  :  "  Jack 
planned  it ;  don't  praise  me." Mrs.  Mor 
gan  clapped  her  hands  when  she  saw  me, 
and  said,  "  Charmante,  charmante  !"  I  am 
so  glad  she  isn't  Jack's  and  Carrie's  own 

mother. Papa  was  pleased,  too,  I  know 

he  was;  for  when  he  kissed  me,  that  look 
came  into  his  face  that  always  does  when 
he  is  pleased — a  half  mournful  look.  I  think 

he  was  wishing  my  mother  could  see  me ; 
6* 


66  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

and  I  couldn't  help  whispering,  "  Papa,  she 
does  see ;"  and  then  he  kissed  me  again. 
Dear  papa ! 

1  am  so  glad  I  am  a  little  bit  nice- 
looking.  Fred  says  I  am  not  pretty,  but 
then  he  says,  "  You'll  do,  just  managing  to 
pass  in  a  crowd,  Nanny ;"  and  he  looks  sat 
isfied. 

I  wondered   so  what  Jack's  flower 

would  be.  When  we  went  down  stairs,  he 
met  us  in  the  hall,  and  in  his  hand  was  noth 
ing  but  a  tiny  little  wreath  for  my  head, 
made  of  the  spray  like  maiden's-hair  fern, 
and  just  in  front  one  soft,  silvery  "  thistle 
down,"  fastened  among  the  ferns.  I  wonder 
how  lie  caught  the  airy  thing?  When  I 
asked  him,  he  said,  quickly,  "  Does  it  look 
caught  and  fastened,  Annie?"  Not  till  I 
told  him,  "  No ;  it  looked  just  resting  of  its 
own  sweet  will  among  the  green  ferns,"  did 
he  smile ;  but  when  I  said  that,  he  seemed 
more  pleased  than  ever  I  have  seen  him  be 
fore,  as  he  replied :  "  That's  the  way,  Annie, 
I  would  ever  catch  the  airy  thistle  down ! 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  fa 

let  it  choose  of  its  own  sweet  will  its  resting- 
place."  I  think  he  must  have  been  tired 

out,  after  searching  all  day  for  these  delicate 

things  for  me. I  tried  not  to  let  him 

know  I  was  disappointed;  but,  just  at  first, 
it  did  seem  such  a  simple  wreath,  and  I  did 
not  find  "  the  flower"  till  Carrie  pointed  it 
out,  hidden  away  among  the  ferns — nothing 
but  a  clover  blossom.  I  couldn't  help  ask 
ing  Jack  why  he  made  this  choice  for  me. 
I  don't  think  he  gave  a  very  good  answer, 
for  all  he  said  was :  "  Annie,  the  meaning  of 
the  wreath,  the  whisper  of  the  clover,  is  for 
you  to  guess.  I  hardly  think  you  will  know 
'  right  away.'  Little  by  little  you  will  come 
to  know  the  answer ;  and  at  the  Christmas 
time  may  I  ask  you  for  it?" The  Christ 
mas  time !  That  is  when  grandpapa  said  I 
must  unbind  for  him  the  wood  gathered  dur 
ing  these  summer  days.  I  wonder  whether 
we  shall  find  in  my  bundle  one  little  fagot 
to  burn  beside  grandpapa's  yule  log  ? 

Later  in  the  evening,  Jack  said  to 

ine,  almost  in  a  whisper:  "Annie,  do  you 


63  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

want  to  know  the  wreath's  meaning,  before 
the  winter  comes  ?"  But  I  told  him  "  No ; 

I  would  wait." Jack  never  puzzled  me 

before.  I  don't  understand  what  he  meant, 
at  all ;  but  I'  know  the  little  wreath  and  the 
clover  blossom  had  a  pleasant  meaning  to 
him,  he  looked  so  happy  all  the  evening ; 
and  yet  I  can't  help  wishing  he  had  chosen 
some  real  beautiful  flower.  I  do  believe 
Carrie  guessed  I  was  disappointed,  for  when 
she  bade  me  good-night,  she  said :  "  Annie, 
do  you  remember  the  verse  that  you  liked 
best  the  other  night,  when  we  repeated  the 
flower  sentiments  ? — 

" '  And  let  some  field  flowers,  even, 
Be  wreathed  among  the  rest  j 
I  think  the  infant  Jesus 

Would  love  such  ones  the  best.'  " 


VIII.    . 

A  LETTER  came  from  grandpapa  this 
-4-^-**  morning-,  all  full  of  "  home  news." 
"  Home !"  Though  I  am  having  such  a  hap 
py  summer,  seeing  the  little  word  in  grand 
papa's  handwriting,  makes  me  long  for  it. 
I  don't  believe  I  ever  could  love  any  place 
in  the  world  as  I  do  our  dear  home ;  but  I 
mustn't  write  about  it  here  in  "  my  diary." 
How  Fred  would  laugh,  if  he  could  peep 
into  this  book.  I  will  take  care  he  never 
does ;  though  I  really  don't  mind  his  laugh 
ing  very  much.  I  think  it  is  only  his  face 
that  laughs  at  me  ;  I  know  his  heart  loves  me 
dearly.  Just  think,  there  are  only  us  two — • 

Fred  and  me ! Grandpapa  writes  that 

he  likes  my  letters ;  and  he  is  so  glad  I  am 

(69) 


•JQ  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

having  a  pleasant  time,  that  he  forgets  to  be 
lonely  without  his  little  Annie  ;  and  then  he 
adds,  he  is  looking  forward  to  my  return 
home,  all  laden  with  "  wood  and  treasures." 

Have   I    gathered    any   thing  yet  ? 

There  have  been  so  many  pleasant  things  to 
think  about — so  many  beautiful  things  to 
enjoy  and  see.  Such  wonderful  undreamed 
of  beauty  as  we  have  found  in  our  long  ram 
bles  ;  sometimes  coming  upon  a  clear  spot, 
all  of  a  sudden  amid  the  dense  woods,  and 
catching  a  far  away  view. 1  don't  be 
lieve  there  is  any  thing  great  in  me,  for  when 
we  find  these  vast  look-out  places,  they  make 
me  silent.  I  think  they  seem  almost  cold, 
and  too  much.  I  am  a  little  bit  afraid  before 

* 

them.  I  love  the  near  better  than  the  far- 
off.  All  the  other  girls,  they  say,  "  Oh  !  how 
grand,  splendid,  glorious,"  and  I  have  never 
a  word.  I  know  it  is  all  grand,  but  then — I 
don't  know  why — it  chills  me.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  I  am  such  a  little  thing,  I  like  the 

little  things  best. The  other  day  we  had 

been  climbing  over  rocks  and  stony  paths 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  ji 

till  quite  tired  out,  and  were  so  glad  when 
we  came  to  a  piny  carpet-place,  made  soft 
and  velvety  for  our  way-worn  feet  by  the 
pine  needles  that  are  falling  all  the  time.  I 
liked  it  so  much — the  stillness,  the  being  shut 
in  by  the  great  sentinel  trees,  the  mountain 
pines.  They  are  so  spire-like,  always  point 
ing  "up."  I  wish  I  could  think  beautiful 
thoughts,  and  then  say  them  out  for  other 

people,  but  I  never  can. I  was  looking 

this  morning  at  a  field  of  grain,  growing  on 
the  mountain  slope,  back  of  the  hotel ;  the 
wind  gently  stirred  it  till  it  rippled  and  rip 
pled,  bright  with  dancing  sunbeams,  that 
straightway  melted  into  misty  shadows,  and 
the  shadows  quickly  were  again  lost  in  sun 
beams —  light  and  shade  playing  together. 

These  little  things  in  nature  seem  so 

like  ourselves  sometimes ;  I  wonder  if,  back 
of  every  thing,  there  is  not  some  under 
lying  meaning — the  "Unseen,"  that  Jack 
talks  about.  Any  way,  in  the  grain  field  I 
found  a  sermon.  Perhaps  'twas  because  the 
sunshine  and  shadow  playing  seemed  so  like 


72  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

my  heart  and  mind — playing  amid  the  sun 
shine  of  life — just  now  and  then  knowing  a 
little  touch  of  the  shadow. But  the  ser 
mon  was  in  the  grain — growing — ripening — 
all  the  time,  till  the  harvest  comes ;  and  it 
seemed  like  grandpapa's  voice,  asking  for 
my  summer  fruit.  Oh,  how  sorrowful  he 
would  be,  should  I  bring  him  "  nothing  but 
leaves !" 

About  the  pine  trees  I  tried  to  tell 

Jack,  but  I  could  not.  I  think  they  breathe 
a  poem  to  me ;  and  when  I  try  to  cage  the 
feeling  into  words,  it  is  gone.  They  make 
me  feel  such  beautiful  things  —  the  solemn 
trees,  the  fearless  dwellers  on  the  high  moun 
tain  peaks,  just  bending  their  plume-crowned 
heads,  as  the  winter  wind  roars  among  their 
branches;  they  only  bow  before  the  snow 
falling  from  heaven,  so  pure  and  white.  Jack 
says  it  always  seems  to  him  when  Jesus 
"went  up  into  the  high  mountain  apart" — 
when  "  His  face  did  shine  as  the  sun,"  and 
"  His  raiment  was  white  as  light ;"  when  the 
"bright  cloud  over-shadowed  Him,"  and 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  73 

the  "  voice  out  of  the  cloud,"  broke  the  still 
ness;  when  Peter  found  it  "good  to  be 
there,"  and  wanted  to  make  the  "  tabernacles 
three" — one  for  Elias,  one  for  Moses,  one  for 
the  "  Christ  Man,"  as  though  when  Christ 
chose  not  the  tabernacle  made  with  hands — 
the  temple  rich  with  precious  stones  and 
costly  splendor ;  He  did  choose  for  the  high 
mountain  tops — a  seal  of  His  earthly  pres 
ence —  a  mute,  but  power-speaking  voice, 
even  the  mighty  trees — the  olive  and  the 
palm,  "round  about  Jerusalem" — the  pine 
and  the  cedar,  saying  to  us :  "  Be  as  we  are, 
ever  looking,  reaching  '  Upward' " 

I  wonder  if  Isaiah  the  prophet,  whose 

lofty  songs  carry  us  on  exultant  wTing  above 
the  plains  and  lowlands  of  thought,  caught 
in  some  "vision  hour"  a  glimpse  of  that 
mountain  scene.  And  was  it  that  glimpse 
that  woke  the  notes  of  joyous  anticipation 
which  made  him  sing  of  the  day  "  when  the 
wilderness  and  solitary  places  became  glad ; 
the  glory  of  Lebanon,  the  excellency  of  Car- 
rael  and  Sharon,  they  saw  the  glory  of  the 
7 


74 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


Lord  and  the  excellency  of  our  God." 

Oh !  it  is  so  beautiful  to  be  up  here  among 
the  great  hills,  the  high  mountains  and  the 
trees. 

When  I  asked  Jack,  "  Did  he  not 

"think  our  days  should  be  '  tabernacle  days  ?' " 
he  looked  long  at  me  before  he  replied : 
"  God  grant,  they  may  indeed  be  tabernacle 

days  to  you,  Annie." 1  know  what  he 

meant ;  and — sometimes — I  think  I,  too,  have 
found  the  "  peace."  Only  I'm  such  a  little 
child  yet  in  faith.  But  Christ  said :  "  Suf 
fer  little  children  to  come  unto  me." 1 

couldn't  tell  this  to  Jack  then ;  but  he  an 
swered  me  just  as  though  I  had  spoken  it 
all  out ;  and  yet  he  only  said :  "  Annie,  do 
you  remember  the  words  Luther,  the  stead 
fast,  fearless  man,  was  wont  to  say  ?"  When 
I  said,  "  No,"  Jack  took  my  hand  gently  in 
his,  and  repeated  softly:  "The  ' word  is 

strong,  but  the  heart  lisps.' But,  our 

God  knows  we  are  but  poor  little  children." 

After  that  we  didn't  talk  any  more. 


IX. 

I  WISH  grandpapa  was  here,  and  that  I 
could  lay  my  head  down  on  his  knee, 
and  tell  him  all  my  heart-full,  and  hear  him 

say :  "  God  bless  you,  child." Dear,  dear 

grandpapa  !  When  the  Christmas  time 
comes,  won't  it  be  beautiful  for  you  and  your 
little  Annie  to  sing  together  the  "glory 
song"  of  "peace  on  earth" — of  peace  in  hu 
man  hearts — Christ's  peace.  I  know  it  now. 
I  am  so  glad  He  sent  it  to  me  in  these  sum 
mer  days. 

It  seems  so  long  ago  since  last  night,  when 
I  talked  with  Jack.  His  words  haunted  me 
so,  I  kept  saying  them  over  and  over  when 
I  came  up  to  my.  room — "  Our  God  knows 
we  are  but  poor  little  children."  Before  he 

(75) 


76  SUMMER  DK1FT-WOOD. 

said  them,  I  felt  very  near  ;  but,  I  don't  know 
why,  they  seemed  to  lift  me  right  up,  close 
to  Christ — to  wrap  and  enfold  me  safe  in 
His  all-surrounding,  all-knowing  love. 

I  saw  it  so  clearly,  sitting  alone,  looking 
out  into  the  night.  It  seemed  to  come  to 
me,  a  whisper  from  every  where — "  God  is 

love." I  don't  know  whether  I  am  a 

Christian.  I  never  shall  be  good  like  Jack, 
Aunt  Mary,  and  grandpapa;  but  oh,  I  am 
so  happy,  trusting  in  Christ ! 


X. 


TO-MORROW  we  leave  the  mountains. 
I'm  sorry  to  go.  I  wonder  whether  I 
shall  ever  have  such  %.good  time  again  ?  And 
I  am  sorry,  too,  because  Jack  is  going  back 
to  the  city.  I  shall  miss  him  every  minute 
of  the  time,  I  know ;  but  it  won't  be  very 
long  before  we  see  him,  for  I  heard  him 
promise  papa  to  come  to  the  seaside  while 
we  are  there.  I  don't  suppose  I  know 
how  to  keep  a  diary.  It  tires  me  dreadfully 
to  write  down  about  all  the  places  we  go  to, 
and  the  sights  we  see ;  but  I  do  dearly  love 
to  tell  the  little  things  and  thoughts  that  be 
long  to  me,  Annie,  to  this  little  book,  that  no 
one  sees  but  myself.  Now  there  was  yes 
terday,  I  want  to  remember  every  minute 
7*  (77) 


78  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

of  the  day,  and  so  I  have  locked  the  door 
and  come  alone  to  my  room  to  try  and  catch 
it  into  words.  I  think  writing  about  any 
thing  we  have  enjoyed,  is  like  fastening  it 
with  a  chain,  every  line  a  link;  and  then, 
when  all  is  told,  the  last  line  finished,  why, 
that  seems  like  a  lock  and  key.  My  journal, 
I  do  believe,  is  a  chain  that  no  one  but  my 
self  could  unlink,  or  even  unlock,  I  scribble 
it  so.  The  words  will  chase  each  other  so 
fast  when  I  write,  half  the  time  I  can't  help 
dropping  the  letters  by  the  way ;  and  the 
words  they  tell  so  little,  how  can  I  put  yes 
terday  down  in  pen  and  ink  strokes.  It  was 
so  beautiful — so  holy — the  early  morning, 
very,  very  early,  when  the  light  was  the 
dawn  glow.  Jack  made  me  promise  I  would 
be  up  in  time  to  see  the  sun  rise  on  the  Sab 
bath  morning — "The  Lord's  Day,"  he  al 
ways  calls  it.  And  he  says  it  seems  to  him 
as  though  Jesus  bestowed  on  the  Sabbath- 
day  something  of  the  same  tenderness  of 
consecration  as  He  did  upon  the  well- 
beloved  John.  "  Think,"  he  said,  "  from  all 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  JQ 

the  others,  Christ  chose  him  for  that '  supper 
night'  as  the  one  alone  whose  head  was  to 
rest  on  His  breast ;  and  so  it  seems  to  me 
the  Sabbath  —  the  '  Resurrection  morning ' 
stands  out  among  the  seven  days  that  make 
for  us  a  week's  time,  as  John  stands  among 
the  disciple  band,  (something  as  Mary,  too, 
shines  among  women,)  as  peculiarly,  ten 
derly,  belonging  to  Christ.  We  almost  lose 
that  old  commandment  God  gave  to  Moses 
for  the  Israel  children  — '  Remember  the 
Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy/  in  the  won 
drous  love  and  glory  that  rests  upon  the 
Sabbath,  MAKING  it  holy  time,  because  it 
was  the  day  Christ  rose." 

When  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  remember 

I  used  to  think  the  birds  sang  a  sweeter  song 
for  Sunday — a  softer,  clearer  note  ;  and  over 
every  thing,  even  now,  it  seems  to  me  there" 
comes  a  peaceful  look  that  belongs  to  no 
other  day.  I  wonder  what  people  would  do 
without  these  rest  places  —  these  Sabbath 
calm  spots,  coming  to  quiet  for  a  little  while, 
all  the  week-day  toil,  noise  and  strife  of  life. 


gO  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

They  are  like  islands,  green,  fruitful,  and 
flower-laden,  Jack  says,  smiling  at  one  from 
the  midst  of  wild  ocean  and  storm-tossed 
waves — oases  in  the  sand  deserts,  with  cool 
ing  shades  and  pure  water  springs  for  the 
tired  traveller ! 

There  were  only  just  two  or  three  beside 
Jack  and  me  to  see  the  sun  rise — nobody  we 
knew.  It  was  so  beautiful ! — the  valley  all 
hid  by  the  mist  clouds,  that  come  with  night 
and  vanish  as  the  day  breaks.  With  the  first 
sun-beam,  dew  drops  glistened  and  sparkled 
every  where — dew-drops — the  manna  that 
falls  in  the  darkness,  silently,  from  heaven — 
the  food  and  refreshment  of  the  flowers  and 
the  meadow  grass.  And,  above  us,  the  deep, 
cold,  clear,  blue,  seeming  so  far  away,  wait 
ing  to  be  made  warm  and  near,  by  the  sun's 
rays ;  like  our  hearts,  Jack  said,  cold,  till  the 
rays  of  the  "  Sun  of  Righteousness  "  warm 
them.  And  the  cloud  banks — they  rested, 
fold  upon  fold,  violet  and  purple,  when  first 
we  looked ;  one  by  one  they  caught  the  rosy 
and  golden  hues,  flashing  them  up,  and  on, 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  3t 

till  not  the  near  clouds  alone,  but  the  very 
farthest  off  were  bright,  glowing  in  the 
morning  gladness.  And  then,  heralded  by 
the  troops  of  heaven-winged,  glory-flushed, 
morning  clouds,  it  came  —  the  sun!  But  I 
don't  think  it  was  the  sun-rise  that  made 
the  morning  hour  for  Jack  and  me ;  I  think 
it  was  my  telling  him,  then,  that  I,  too,  be 
gan  to  know  the  peace  that  he  had  told  me 
"passeth  understanding"  —  "the  peace  of 
God"  —  that  I,  too,  could  say:  "Thanks 
be  unto  God  for  '  His  unspeakable  gift.' " 

It  was  this  made  our  morning  hour  a 

something  always  to  be  most  precious,  just 
as  it  makes  now,  wkcn  I  write  of  it,  the  first 
golden  link  in  my  Sabbath,  so  full  of  dear 
memories. 

A  party  of  us  went  down  to  the  little 

village  where  Mr.  Hubbel  preaches,  starting 
early  in  the  morning,  the  distance  was  so 
great.  Such  a  rough  road  as  it  was !  but  so 
beautiful,  we  forgot  the  roughness.  Our 
path  wound  round  among  the  mountains,  in 
some  places,  spite  the  bright  sunshine,  al 


g2  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

most  dark,  from  the  dense  overshadowing 
boughs  of  the  forest  trees.  We  followed  a 
little  stream  ever  so  far.  The  very  happiest 
little  stream  it  seemed,  leaping  over  the 
rocks,  gliding  over  the  pebbly  places  so 
swiftly  and  yet  so  calmly  !  By  the  brook's 
side  we  found  patches  of  ferns,  up-springing 
water  grass  and  reeds,  and  one  little  hidden- 
away  nook,  all  full  of  lilies,  white  and  yel 
low,  nestling  among  their  great  shady,  pro 
tective  leaves.  Every  thing  was  so  beauti 
ful — so  peaceful!  I  think  never  was  thare 
such  a  Sunday  before !  Carrie  forgot  all 
about  the  rest  of  us,  I  do  believe ;  she  began 
singing  to  herself,  softly  at  first ;  but  soon  we 
all  joined  in,  breaking  the  stillness  with 
songs  of  praise  —  glad,  exultant  songs — 
hymns  of  joy,  till  the  hills  echoed  with  our 
voices,  as  we  sang  of  "  Jerusalem  the  gold 
en." And  so  we  came  to  the  little  church. 

The  service  was  very  simple,  but  impressive 
and  holy.  When  the  bell  ceased  calling  the 
worshipers,  silence  seemed  to  creep  over 
the  hearts  of  the  little  band  gathered  there 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  g^ 

to  "  think  of  Christ,"  and  all  was  still,  till  up 
rose  the  whole  congregation,  and  together 
with  one  accord  they  sang : 

"  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow ; 
Praise  Him  all  creatures  here  below  ; 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host, 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost." 

(I  think  it  a  beautiful  custom,  thus  to  be 
gin  the  morning  with  praise.  Not  to  keep 
the  praise-notes  hidden  in  the  heart  till  the 
ending  of  the  service,  but  to  sound  them  out 
first.)  And  then  again  ah1  was  silent,  till  the 
minister  said :  "  Let  us  lift  up  our  hearts, 
'  nearer  to  God.1 ' 

I  don't  think  I  heard  all  the  words  of  his 
prayer,  because  my  heart  was  filled  with  so 
"joyous  a  trembling,"  lifting  and  being  lifted, 
nearer  to  God,  on  the  Sabbath  morning,  the 
"first  day  of  the  week"  to  me — the  first 
Sabbath  when,  not  only  with  the  lip  word, 
but  with  a  soul  voice,  I  could  bow  before 
Him  and  whisper— "  Rabboni " — "Master." 
The  sermon  was  very  plain,  but  the  words 
of  the  text  said  enough — "looking  unto 


gt  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

Jesus." I  am  so  happy,  "  looking,"  now ; 

but  when  the  dark  days  come,  and  He  leads 
me  by  a  rough  way,  shall  I  trust  then,  too  ? 
I  think  I  shall.  Only  I'm  so  weak  and  full 
of  sin ;  but  Jack  says,  "  I  must  not  think  of 
that — I  must  look  away  from  self — look  only 
to  Christ,  if  I  would  keep  right." 

Returning  late  in  the  day,  through 

the  twilight  woods,  we  talked  of  many 
things.  Jack  told  us  of  a  picture  he  saw 
when  in  Europe  last  spring,  called,  "  Where 
they  crucified  Him."  He  calls  the  picture 
a  "  sacred  lyric,"  full  of  solemn  thought  and 
tender  pathos.  He  said  the  artist  "had 
chosen  the  towards  -  evening  hour,  when 
'  darkness  already  began  to  gather  over  the 
battlemented  walls,  the  temple,  and  city  of 
Jerusalem/  veiling  the  hills  in  misty  gloom ; 
when  on  Golgotha  the  Calvary  hour  was 
passed — the  bodies  of  the  malefactors  and  of 
Him  who  with  them  was  crucified  had  been 
removed,  because  they  '  should  not  remain 
until  th.e  Sabbath  day.'  In  the  far  west  the 
sun  sets,  sinking  behind  the  cloud -banks; 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  g$ 

and,  coming  up  over  the  distant  misty  east 
ern  hills,  'mid  the  clouds,  varied  and  radiant 
with  the  sun-set  glory,  the  moon  rises.  On 
the  hill-side,  where  but  a  little  while  before 
the  thronging  multitude  were  gathered — • 
the  multitude  crying,  '  Crucify  him — crucify 
him' — there  broods  now  a  solemn  stillness, 
broken  only  by  the  stroke  of  the  workman's 
tool  as  he  lowers  the  central  cross  —  the 
cross  on  which  the^  Saviour  suffered.  The 
bowed  figure  of  the  man  of  toil  tells  in  every 
line  the  deep  reverence  with  which  he  re 
gards  the  task  before  him.  He  is  just  fold 
ing  up  the  inscription  on  which  was  written, 
'  The  King  of  the  Jews.'  Grouped  near, 
leaning  on  the  prostrate  cross,  are  little  chil 
dren,  one  holding  in  his  hand  a  nail  that  had 
been  used  in  the  great  sacrifice,  and  careful 
ly  examining  it  with  a  look  of  questioning 
awe  and  childlike  wonderment  blended  with 
reverence."  I  longed  to  ask  Jack :  Did  he 
think  the  little  ones  knew  the  Calvary  story  ? 
Was  it  one  of  the  little  children  He  called 
unto  Him  to  bless,  that  now  held  the  cruel 
8 


85  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

nail  ?  And  must  even  the  little  children  know 
of  the  cross?  All  these  questions  I  longed 
to  ask ;  but  it  was  so  still  when  he  ceased 
speaking,  I  think  his  words  had  made  us  feel 
nearer  to  that  day,  so  long  since  passed, 
than  even  looking  at  the  picture  would  have 
done. 

By  and  by  Mr.  Hubbel,  who  walked 

part  way  back  with  us,  broke  the  hush  that 
had  fallen  over  all  when  Jack  finished  his 
description.  I  was  so  glad  his  voice  wasn't 
sorrowful,  but  full  of  earnest  joy.  Just  the 
same  kind  of  joy  which  I  think  up -welled 
in  the  heart  of  Thomas  (when  too  overjoyed 
to  reach  forth  a  doubting  finger,  no  longer 
"faithless,  but  believing,"  he  cried,  "My 
Lord  and  my  God!")  sounded  in  Mr.  Hub- 
bel's  voice  as  he  repeated  the  hymn : 

"In  the  cross  of  Christ  I  glory, 

Towering  o'er  the  wrecks  of  time  ; 
All  the  light  of  sacred  story 

Gathers  round  its  head  sublime." 

And  then  he  added :   "  What  a  picture 
these  words  give  us ! — The  Cross  of  Christ ! 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  g^ 

— The  wrecks  of  time !— Darkness,  sin,  every 
where ;  but  over  all,  the  light,  not  of  earthly 
splendor  that  is  dimmed  by  earth's  changing 
days,  but  the  light  which  is  unchanging, 
gathered  where?  About  the  Temple — the 
royal  city?  About  the  days  of  Roman 
pomp,  Grecian  culture  and  beauty?  No, 
not  there,  where  ruin  and  decay  murmur: 
'  Our  gTory  is  departed ;  our  beauty  is  as 
dust  and  ashes.'  No,  the  lasting  light  gath 
ers  only  round  the  Cross." 


XI. 

THIS  morning  Jack  went  away,  and  to 
morrow  we  go,  instead  of  to-day,  as 
papa  first  planned.  I  couldn't  bear  to  say 
good-bye  to  Jack,  we  have  been  so  happy 
together,  and  it  seems  as  though  he  would 
have  been  such  a  help  to  me  now ;  but  when 
I  told  him  so,  he  said  :  "  Perhaps  that  is  one 
reason  why  we  are  to  be  separated,  Annie, 
for  a  little  while.  You  might  turn  to  me  foi 
help,  when  the  command  is,  not  to  look  at 
Christian  friends,  but  to  look  at  Christ. 
'  Follow  me,'  Jesus  said."  Then  he  gave 
me  some  dear  little  helpful  words  to  remem 
ber;  and  just  because  they  were  so  kind 
and,  helpful  they  made  me  feel  how  lonely 
I  should  be  when  he  was  really  gone.  I 

(88) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  3^ 

laid  my  head  down  on  the  mossy  bank 
where  we  were  sitting,  and  cried.  I  know 
it  was  childish,  but  Jack  wasn't  vexed ; 
he  only  tried  to  soothe  me,  whispering  as 
we  heard  the  stage  coming  that  was  to  take 
him  away :  "  Remember,  Annie,  '  Christ  al 
ways  is  near,'  and  you  can  tell  Him  all  the 
temptations,  the  failures,  and  the  longings, 
of  your  heart ;"  and  then  he  stooped  and 
kissed  me — he  never  did  that  before — and 
again  he  whispered :  "  Good-bye,  my  little 

thistle-down," Well !  since  then,  I  have 

just  sat  and  thought,  and,  I  believe,  felt 
home-sick  for  Jack.  I  do  wish  he  was  my 
own  brother,  just  like  Fred. 


8* 


XII. 

*"T)APA  came  up  to  my  room  this  morn- 
JL  ing,  just  after  I  finished  writing,  when 
I  was  sitting  all  alone,  thinking  about  Jack's 

having  gone  away. I  had  such  a  dear 

talk  with  papa.  I  told  him  all  that  has 
made  me  so  happy  these  last  few  days,  and 
how  different  life  and  everything  seemed  to 
me,  now  that  Christ  was  my  dearest  friend 
and  Saviour.  I  never  saw  papa  so  happy 
before,  and  yet  he  did  not  say  much — hard 
ly  anything,  except — "  Annie,  the  prayer 
your  mother  breathed  for  you,  her  baby-girl, 

the  night  she  left  me,  now  is  answered." 

And  then  papa  bowed  his  head  on  the  little 

table. 1  knew  he  did  not  want  me   to 

speak  to  him,  so  I  stole  my  hand  into  his — 
(90) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  gi 

and  laid   my  head   on  his  shoulder. 1 

think  we  sat  for  an  hour  quiet,  with  one  an 
other,  papa  and  I.  When  he  lifted  up  his 
head,  there  were  tear  marks  about  his  eyes, 
but  his  face  was  all  happiness  as  he  folded 
me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  me,  saying :  "  God 
bless  and  guard  you,  my  darling,  keep 
ing  you  close  to  Him  ;"  and  then  he  left  me. 
• Papa  never  says  very  much,  and  I  sup 
pose  that  is  why  I  care  more  for  these  few 
words. 

It  was  when  I  said  good-night,  that  papa 
gave  me  my  choice  of  going  to  the  village 
where  he  lived  when  he  was  a  boy,  or  continu 
ing  our  pleasure  trip  in  company  with  Mrs. 
Morgan  and  her  party.  I  was  so  delighted 
at  the  thought  of  going  where  papa's  boy 
hood  was  spent,  I  did  not  hesitate  in  choos 
ing  for  a  minute,  but  Mrs.  Morgan  and  the 
rest  caught  my  words,  and  they  all  crowd 
ed  round,  and  begged  me  not  to  go  to  that 
"  poky  old  farm  house,"  and  old  maid  Aunt 
Stella,  but  to  stay  with  them.  When  Mrs. 
Morgan  reminded  me  that  grandpapa  and 


92 


SU3TMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


grandmama  had  died  since  papa  was  there, 
and  asked,  "  Would  it  not  be  mournful  for 
him  to  go  where  so  many  changes  had 
come?"  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do;  but 
papa  came  to  my  help,  and  said :  "  Let  An 
nie  do  as  she  likes  best.  What  pleases  her 
most,  pleases  me.  And  the  going  to  my  old 
home,  even  though  I  find  many  changes, 
will  not  be  painful — changes  are  every 
where."  Then  I  knew  what  papa  wanted, 
and  I  didn't  mind  Mrs.  Morgan  and  all  their 

persuasions. I'm   so  glad  of  this   quiet 

time  before  me. 1  know  I  shall  have  to 

go  out  into  the  world.  I  know  Christ  said, 
"  Confess  me  before  men,"  and  I  long  to 
have  every  one  know  how  precious  I  find 
Him ;  but,  just  now,  I  shall  like  better  the 
being  able  to  think  more  and  differently  than 
I  could  do  in  the  crowded  places  to  which  we 
were  going ;  and  it  will  take  me  so  long  to 
learn,  even  a  little  of  my  own  heart. 

1  have  always  been  happy,  and  yet 

these   last  months,  I  have  sometimes   had 
such  a  dissatisfied  feeling  —  I  have  wanted 
6* 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  g., 

something  more.  I  tried  one  day  to  tell  it 
to  Jack.  He  put  it  into  words  for  me,  say 
ing  :  "  Man's  destiny,  Annie,  is  not  to  be 
dissatisfied,  but  unsatisfied" — always  athirst 
for  God.  That  means,  always  to  be  want 
ing  to  be  purer  and  better — more  like  Him, 
who  though  "  tempted  in  all  points,  like  as 

we   are,  was  yet  without  sin." It 'is  a 

beautiful  word  of  the  psalmist,  that  tells  us 
of  the  "  hart  panting  after  the  water  brooks, 
as  the  soul  panteth  after  God." 1  won 
der  if  I  shall  ever  be  like  the  hart — tired, 
hunted,  at  bay.  Struggling  to  reach  the 
"just  beyond" — the  cooling  water  brook — • 
thirsting  for  one  drop — longing  for  rest  on 
its  shady  bank. 

Now   I   am   so   happy. But  the 

Christian's  life,  it  must  be  a  life  of  con 
flict  and  effort.  Paul  says :  "  Fight  the  good 
fight  of  faith" — "  Press  toward  the  mark, 
for  the  prize  of  your  high  calling;"  and 
these  words,  they  surely  tell  of  effort — labor. 
"  The  pure  white  blossoms  of  holy  tranquilli 
ty  and  peace,  do  they  only  spring  from  the 


94  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

bulbs  of  toil  ?"  "  The  fruits  of  the  spirit, 
love,  joy,  peace,  long  suffering-,  gentleness, 
goodness,  faith,"  do  they  only  ripen  on 
the  tree  that  has  broken  through  the  earth 
clods  ?  And  Christ  said :  "  Whosoever  doth 
not  bear  his  cross,  and  come  after  me,  can 
not  be  my  disciple."  But  then  He  said  too : 
"  I  atn  the  vine,  ye  are  the  branches ;"  so  if 
He  sees  we  need  a  cross,  He  is  with  us  to 
help  support  the  burden.  I  remember,  last 
May,  how  I  watched  the  grape-vine  just  out 
side  my  window,  and  thought  about  "the 
sap  gurgling  up  into  the  dead  branches. 
Every  day  they  grew  more  beautiful  in 
their  green  freshness;  and  just  so,  Christ 
has  said,  He  will  be  in  us — not  outside,  as 
the  Sun  is,  but  in"  I  did'nt  understand,  at 
first,  what  Jack  meant  by  saying,  "  man's 
destiny  was  to  be  not  dfosatisfied,  but  always 
2/;zsatisfied ;"  but  now  I  begin  to  catch  a 
glimmer  of  his  meaning.  The  more  we 
think  of  Christ,  the  more  we  see  in  self 
to  condemn.  The  "  perfect  life  of  the  sin 
less  man,"  we  reach  but  such  a  little  way 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  QEJ 

up  toward  it,  how  can  we  help  being  unsat 
isfied  ?  And  yet,  it  seems  to  me,  as  the  days 
of  Christian  life — the  days  of  believing  are 
numbered  by  months  and  years,  as  though 
one  would  forget  all  about  being  dissatisfied 
— unsatisfied  ;  pass  way  beyond,  and  lose 
the  remembrance  of  the  words  in  the 
thought  of  that  waking  time,  when  we 
"shall  be  satisfied,"  for  we  shall  "see  Him 
as  He  is."  I  wonder  if  there  wasn't  some 
thing  of  this  thought  in  Jack's  heart,  when 
he  copied  for  me  the  little  verse : 

"  Thro'  Life  and  Death,  thro'  sorrow  and  thro'  sinning, 
Christ  shall  suffice  me,  for  He  hath  sufficed. 

Christ  is  the  end,  for  Christ  is  the  beginning ; 
Christ  the  beginning,  for  the  end  is  Christ." 


XIII. 

I  AM  so  glad  papa  brought  me  here.  I 
think  it  is  the  dearest  old  homestead  in 
the  world,  and  Aunt  Stella  is  not  one  bit 
"  poky,"  as  Susie  Carrol  said  I  should  find 
her,  but  just  the  sweetest-faced  old  lady  I 
ever  imagined.  I  really  longed  last  night  to 
paint  a  little  picture  of  her  and  papa,  as  they 
sat  in  the  dimly-lighted  room,  talking  over 
"old  times."  I  stole  out  to  the  porch,  it 
was  so  pleasant  there.  Broad  moonlight 
bands  stretched  across  the  hall,  and  little 
broken  rays  flitted  and  flirted  'mid  the  leaves 
of  the  honey-suckle  that  climbs  over  the 
porch  quite  up  to  the  roof.  From  my  seat 
on  the  door-step,  I  could  see  right  into  the 

sitting-room,   and   watch   Aunt   Stella   and 
(96) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


97 


papa,  though  I  couldn't  hear  what  they  said. 
It  is  a  queer  old  stone  house,  built  long  ago, 
and  the  furniture  and  every  thing  is  just  as 
old-fashioned  as  it  can  be.  Such  odd  pic 
tures  of  grandfathers  and  grandmothers, 

aunts  and  uncles,  as  hang  on  the  walls ! 

I  should  think  it  would  be  dreadfully  lonely 
for  Aunt  Stella  ;  but  though  papa  has  often 
asked  her  to  come  and  live  with  us,  she  al 
ways  says  :  "  No ;  I'll  wait  here  with  Han 
nibal  and  Chloe.  It  won't  be  for  long.  I 

like  the  old  place  best." 1  wish  I  could 

read  the  history  every  nook  and  corner  of 
the  old  house  and  rambling  garden  could 
tell  me.  I  like  to  be  here.  And  yet  there 
is  something  weird  and  mysterious.  I  keep 
thinking  of  Hawthorne's  books,  and  Long 
fellow's  "New-England  Tragedies" — keep 
wondering  when  I  walk  through  the  half- 
deserted  streets,  whether  it  seemed  just  so 
in  those  old-time  days. 

But  I  am  dreaming  again,  and  I  did  re 
solve  I  wouldn't  do  it  any  more;  yet  there 
don't   seem  a  bit  of  good  or  work  to  do 
9 


og  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

here.  Aunt  Stella  sits  all  day  in  her  cool 
parlor,  knitting.  Half  the  time  her  eyes  are 
shut.  Now  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  for 
her ;  perhaps  she  would  like  some  flowers, 
though ;  and  I  will  just  write  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  go  and  gather  some.  I  suppose 
she  is  thinking  all  the  time,  and  wide  awake  ; 
but  she  does  look  so  near  a  nap,  I  don't  like 
to  disturb  her  by  speaking.  This  morning 
I  sat  still  till  I  was  tired  and  a  little  lonely, 
because  papa  had  left  me ;  so  I  crept  out  as 
quiet  as  a  mouse.  Auntie  never  heard  me, 
for  I  looked  back  from  the  open  door,  and 

she  was  knitting  away  with  closed  eyes. 

I  wonder  if  she  is  praying  all  the  time  she  is 
so  still.  I  like  to  think  she  is.  If  I  should 
live  to  be  very  old,  I  wonder  would  I  sit  so 
quietly,  never  minding  the  outside  world, 
but  just  wrapped  up  in  my  own  thoughts, 
living  over  the  past?  Aunt  Stella  is  very 
peaceful ;  she  looks  as  if  she  had  learned  al 
most  as  well  as  grandpapa  the  command, 
"  Pray  without  ceasing."  Only  she  don't 
look  as  if  she  had  quite  the  same  "  young 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


99 


soul"  as  he  has.  She  looks  as  though  in  the 
doing  of  Christ's  will,  she  had  so  often  come 
to  places  where  she  has  had  to  wait  before 
she  could  say,  "Thy  will  be  done"  —  as 
though  the  "  Fear  not,  little  flock,"  had 
sounded  more  faintly  and  seemed  spoken  by 
a  voice  farther  off  than  it  has  been  from 
grandpapa — as  though  her  way  had  been 
through  so  many  difficulties.  There  is  just 
this  difference  between  grandpapa's  old  age 
and  Aunt  Stella's.  He  looks  all  peace,  as 
though  the  "sorrowing"  had  always  been 
lost  in  the  "rejoicing;"  she,  quiet  and  calm 
now ;  but  there  is  something  that  tells  it 
wasn't  always  so. 

1  wish  Jack  was  here,  that  I  could 

ask  him  what  that  verse  means :  "  Pray  with 
out  ceasing."  Of  course  it  can't  mean,  all 
the  time  we  are  to  be  praying.  I  suppose  it 
means,  all  the  time  we  are  to  have  a  prayer 
in  our  hearts,  and  I'm  beginning  now  to 

learn  the  meaning  of  that. It  is  only  a 

little  while  since  I  began  to  love  and  trust 
Christ,  and  yet  already  life  and  every  thing 


I00  SUMMER  DEIFT-WOOD. 

seems  different.  Even  papa's  love  and  the 
good  times  I  have  had  with  Jack  would  seem 
not  half  so  dear,  if  I  couldn't  tell  all  to  Jesus. 
I  wonder  whether  it  is  wrong  to  feel  so? 
But  I  know  it  can't  be.  Why,  'tis  just  the 
telling  all  the  little  things  that  makes  me  so 
glad  and  happy — that  makes  Christ  seem  so 
near — such  a  real  and  close  friend.  Yet 

when  I  think  of  Him  in  His  glory,  surround- 

• 
ed  by  the  worshiping  angels,  hearkening  to 

the  cries  of  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
human  hearts,  that  are  constantly  lifting 
"  praise  and  adoration,  with  prayer  and  sup 
plication,"  I'm  almost  afraid  to  tell  Him  all ; 
but  then  I  remember,  "  our  God  knows  we 
are  but  poor  little  children,"  and  I  think  it 
was  this  made  Christ  say,  "  Are  not  two 
sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing?  and  one  of 
them  shall  not  fall  to  the  ground  without 
your  Father ;  fear  ye  not,  therefore,  ye  are 
of  more  value  than  many  sparrows ;"  so  I 
won't  be  afraid  any  more^  but  go  on  telling 
Him  all.  I  know  I  shall  be  happier  so,  and, 
I  think,  keep  closer  to  Him." 


XIV. 

OLD  HANNIBAL  has  just  brought  me 
three  letters — one  from  papa,  saying 
he  is  sorry  to  disappoint  me  of  the  drives 
and  pleasures  we  had  planned,  but  that  un 
locked  for  business  makes  it  necessary  for 
him  to  be  in  the  city,  and  that  I  must  be 
all  packed  and  ready  to  leave  Friday  morn 
ing,  (that's  the  day  after  to-morrow,)  when 
he  will  take  me  to  the  sea-side,  where  Aunt 
Mary  is ;  then  he  must  return  to  New  York, 
and  be  without  me  all  August  and  part  of 

September ! It  does  seem  such  a  long 

time  to  look  forward  to  being  without  papa. 

The  next,  a  little  note  from  Aunt  Mary, 

telling  me  the  sea-side  is  beautiful  and  rest 
ful  to  her,  and  of  all  the  plans  she  is  making 
9*  (I01) 


IO2  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

for  the  happy  days  she  hopes  we  shall  spend 
together  there.  Her  little  note  makes  me 
quite  long  to  go.  And  the  other  letter,  it 
was  from  Jack.  I  never  thought  he  would 
write  to  me,  though  I  have  wished  ever  so 
much  he  would.  'Tis  such  a  helpful  letter, 
saying  just  what  I  wanted  some  one  to  say 
to  me.  He  writes :  "  Remember,  Annie, 
take  no  Christian  for  your  guide ;  take  Christ 
as  your  pattern  and  example,  and  feel  how 
glorious  a  thing  it  is  to  be  like  your  Leader. 
I  am  persuaded,  just  in  proportion  to  our 
faith  in  Christ,  is  our  joy.  Begin  right ;  fol 
low  Jesus  with  your  whole  heart ;  study  His 
character ;  be  ever  looking  away  from  your 
self;  be  'looking  unto  Jesus;'  and  you  will 
find  yourself  becoming  more  and  more  like 
Him ;  till  that  blessed  day,  when  '  we  shall 
be  like  Him,  for  we  shall  see  Him  as  He  is.' 
Does  not  this  'for '  indicate  that  those  who 
fix  their  eyes  on  Christ  shall  receive  His 
image  in  their  souls  in  just  the  same  measure 
with  which  He  reveals  Himself  to  them? 
And  we  know  that  this  will  be  in  proper- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  j  QT 

tion  to  the  faith  with  which  we  lift  our  eyes 
to  Him." 

1  think  'twas  so  kind  of  Jack  to  write 

to  me.  I  couldn't  help  kneeling  right  down 
and  thanking  God  ;  for  it  is  His  love  that 
gives  me  so  many  kind  friends,  and  that  has 
put  it  into  Jack's  heart  to  help  me  "  follow 

Christ." It  is  beautiful  to  feel  our  friends 

are  God's  gifts  to  us.  Thinking  of  it  has 
made  me  understand  why  we  love  and  are 
loved,  sometimes,  when  we  can't  explain 
what  rouses  the  feeling.  I  think  'twill  al 
ways  make  me  care  more  for  my  friends, 
now  that  I  have  come  to  know  they  are 
given  me  by  God,  "  Our  Father."  And  their 
love  for  me,  why  it  is  His  will  that  wakens 
it  in  their  hearts.  Feeling  so,  makes  friend 
ship  such  a  sacred,  holy  thing. 

I  suppose  one  reason  why  some  people 
seem  to  receive  so  much  more  love  and  ten 
derness  than  others  is,  God  sees  they  need 
more,  and  so  He  blesses  them  with  it ;  just 
as  some  flowers  need  the  sunshine  before 
they  blossom,  and  others  spring  up  and 


104 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


bloom  in  shady  places.  And  I  suppose,  too, 
it  is  when  God  sees  we  love,  trust  and  lean 
too  closely  on  our  earthly  friends  that  He 
takes  them  from  us,  not  in  judgment,  but  in 
love,  that  we  may  draw  nearer  to  Him,  hav 
ing  less  to  lean  on  here. 


XV. 

I  HAVE  had  such  a  happy  evening ! 
And  yet  there  have  been  tears  in  it. 
After  tea  I  asked  Aunt  Stella  if  she  would 
like  to  have  me  read  to  her.  She  was  so 
pleased,  and  said,  "  Yes ;  for  her  old  eyes 
couldn't  read  for  themselves  very  well." 
Then  she  gave  me  her  little  hymn  book,  that 
always  lies  with  her  Bible  on  the  table  by 
her  side,  and  said :  "  Call  Hannibal  and 
Chloe ;  they  will  like  to  hear  you,  too." 
Hannibal  and  Chloe,  his  wife,  have  lived 
here  ever  since  papa  was  a  little  boy.  I 
went  into  the  kitchen  and  told  them  I  was 
going  to  read  to  auntie,  and  she  said  they 
could  come  and  listen.  They  were  so 
pleased.  I  couldn't  help  laughing.  Hanni- 

(105) 


IO5  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

bal  does  say  such  funny  things,  and  his  face 
is  so  black  and  shiny,  and  his  hair  white 
and  woolly.  He  began  to  rub  his  hands, 
exclaiming :  "  Now  this  'ere  is  delightsome 
— a  delightsome  pleasure,  Miss  Annie.  Me 
and  Chloe  will  be  powerful  proud  to  hear 
ye."  And  all  the  way  into  the  sitting-room 
he  kept  muttering  to  himself:  "  I'm  mighty 
glad — powerful  pleased." 

1  didn't  know  what  to  read  just  at 

first.  The  little  hymn  book  seemed  a 
stranger.  I  couldn't  turn  to  a  familiar  line. 
I  did  so  wish  for  Jack — he  would  have 
known  right  away ;  but  I'm  such  a  beginner 
in  the  Christian  life.  But,  then,  we  must 
always  be  learners;  and  I  suppose  even 
grandpapa,  who  has  been  a  follower  of  Jesus 
so  many  years,  every  day  turns  a  page  of 
new  and  fresh  meanings  —  all  the  time  is 
finding  revelations  of  His  love  and  goodness. 
I  remember  hearing  him  say  once  to  papa : 
"  We  are  just  learners  here — little  children, 
knowing,  at  the  best,  only  the  A  B  C  of  the 
heavenly  language.  Not  till  we  reach  home 


SUMMEK  DRIFT-WOOD. 


lO/ 


shall  we  begin  to  read  its  fullness  of  mean 
ing  and  beauty,  '  for  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor 
ear  heard,  neither  have  entered  into  the 
heart  of  man  the  things  which  God  hath 
prepared  for  them  that  love  Him.'  And  yet 
we  do  catch  some  words  from  the  hearts  of 
God's  children  that  are  more  than  alphabet 
letters  —  words  that  seem  to  have  come 
straight  from  the  'other  land.'  I  suppose 
they  are  the  thoughts  that  Christ  breathes 
into  our  hearts,  '  revealing  them  unto  us  by 
His  spirit.'  " 

— —  I  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  little 
hymn  book.  I  felt  embarrassed.  I  wonder 
why  it  is  so  hard  to  speak  of  Christ  ?  I  won 
der  why  we  are  such  contradictions  to  our 
selves  about  it  ?  We  love  Jesus  best  of  all ;  we 
long  to  have  others  know  His  love ;  and  yet 
we  hesitate  and  linger  before  speaking  of 
Him.  I  wonder  why  it  was  I  shrank  from 
my  own  voice,  and  there  was  nobody  there 
but  Aunt  Stella,  Hannibal  and  Chloe.  I 
have  sung  and  played  before  ever  so  many 
people,  and  it  never  seemed  half  so  hard  to 


IO8  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

do  as  it  did  last  night,  when  Aunt  Stella 
took  the  little  book  from  my  hand  and  said  : 
'  Sing  to  us,  child,  instead  of  reading ;"  but 
when  I  began  the  words,  "  Jesus,  lover  of 
my  soul,"  I  forgot  all  about  being  afraid ; 
and  I  think  now  one  reason  why  I  felt  so  at 
first  was  because  the  three  old  people  knew 
so  much  more  of  Christ  than  I  did.  When 
I  stopped,  Aunt  Stella's  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  and  she  said :  "  Go  on ;  sing  of  the 
*  Rock  of  Ages,'  child."  So  I  sang  all  the 
verses  through.  I  think  God  gave  me  this 
singing  service,  just  to  show  me  that  what 
I  thought  in  the  morning  about  there  being 
nothing  for  me  to  do  here  was  wrong ;  for 
Aunt  Stella  said  :  "  You  have  done  me  good, 
Annie."  And  old  Chloe  was  really  crying, 
not  sorrowfully,  (I  know  it  was  not  sorrow 
fully,)  but  because  she  was  so  happy ;  and 
in  a  broken  voice  she  said :  "  It  seems  like 
though  we  had  been  thar,  and  beared  the 
angels  singing.  Now  don't  it,  Missus  ?"  And 
Hannibal  said :  "  It  'pears  like  to  me,  Miss 
Annie,  you're  chosed  to  be  mighty  blest  of 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  IOg 

de  Lord."  And  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  his 
rough  coat  sleeve,  saying :  "  Delightsome, 
that  ar  singing;  it  makes  this  ole  sinner 
want  mighty  to  be  good.  Wai,  I  does  try ; 
and  I  succeeds  pretty  wal."  Poor  old  igno 
rant  Hannibal !  I  don't  think  he  meant  to 
be  self-righteous ;  only  he  does  try ;  and 
when  he  succeeds,  he  don't  quite  understand 
that  his  well-doing  is  because  Christ  has 
helped  him.  I  will  try  to-morrow  to  explain 
it  to  him.  Aunt  Stella  did  not  say  a  word 
for  ever  so  long  after  Hannibal  and  Chloe 
left  the  room ;  but,  by  and  by,  she  stooped 
over  and  kissed  me.  I  was  sitting  on  a  little 
stool  at  her  feet,  and  again  she  said,  "  You 
have  done  me  good,  Annie,"  murmuring  to 
herself,  "  A  little  child  shall  lead  them."  I 
wonder  if  she  knew  how  the  murmured 
words  thrilled  through  me  with  joy. 

When  Aunt  Stella  kissed  me,  a  tear 
drop  fell  on  my  forehead.  It  seemed  to  me 
almost  a  baptismal  seal — the  tear-drop  that 
fell  from  that  old  weary  heart,  as  she  blessed 
me.  I  couldn't  help  thinking,  as  I  sat  there 
10 


IIO  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

in  the  deepening  twilight,  of  all  the  tears 
that  had  fallen  from  Aunt  Stella's  eyes.  She 
is  very  old — she  was  grandmama's  sister — 
and  as  I  looked  at  her,  she  seemed  quiet  and 
contented ;  and  yet  I  know,  back  of  all  the 
repose  of  her  life  now,  in  the  by-gone  days 
there  had  been  hours  of  storm  and  tempest. 
When  Chloe  brought  in  the  candles,  she 
kissed  me  again  and  said  :  "  God  bless  you, 
phild  !  I  thought  the  old  eyes  had  forgotten 
to  weep.  They  have  known  many  tears  in 
their  lifetime,  little  Annie ;  but  they  are  al 
most  there,  where  sorow  and  weeping  are 
unknown — where  '  God  shall  wipe  all  tears 
away.' '  And  then  she  said  :  "  You  have 
been  a  comfort  to  me,  child.  Sometimes  the 
old  woman  is  lonely — they  are  all  gone ;  but 
it  won't  seem  long  to  wait  now."  I  laid  my 
head  down  in  Aunt  Stella's  lap  and  cried — 
I  couldn't  help  it — and  she  smoothed  the 
hair  from  my  forehead  with  her  wasted  fin 
gers — her  aged  hands,  tired  with  life's  work, 
and  then  she  took  from  her  pocket  a  little 
case,  saying:  "Shall  I  show  your  young 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  Iir 

eyes  what  only  old  worn-out  eyes  have  seen 
these  many  years?"  The  little  case  was 
pocket-worn  and  time-stained.  So  tenderly 
she  held  it  in  her  trembling  hands,  wiping 
the  tiny  dust-specks  away  with  her  soft  cam 
bric  handkerchief!  Her  faded  eyes  grew 
warm  and  soft  with  the  love-light  which  had 
never  died  from  her  heart.  Then  she  handed 
me  the  picture,  saying:  "  Annie,  I  was  young 
once — young,  like  you,  little  one." 

It  was  only  an  old-fashioned  minia 
ture,  and  the  face  wasn't  handsome  that 
looked  at  me  from  it.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
plain  man — a  homely  man,  taken  in  early 
manhood;  and  opposite  was  a  profile,  cut 
in  black  paper,  of  a  girl  face.  I  knew  it  was 
Aunt  Stella.  A  lock  of  dark  hair  was  tied 
with  a  faded  ribbon,  and  fastened  beneath 

the  pictured  face. And  I  held  it  in  my 

hand — the  story  of  Aunt  Stella's  life.  It 
was  never  written  down,  but  the  pictured 
face,  the  profile  of  the  young  girl,  the  lock 

of  hair— they  told  it  all ! "  I'm  old  now," 

she  said  again  —  "an   old   maid,   Annie  — 


H2  SdMMER  DRTFT-WOOD. 

called  so  these  many  years ;  but  it  don't  seem 
long-  ago  since  I  dreamed  my  dreams,  child. 
God's  ways  are  not  our  ways ;  but  He  knows 

best,  and  it  is  all  right." Then  she  was 

still,  and  the  "  pray  without  ceasing"  look 
crept  over  her  face. 

When  next  she  spoke,  there  were  no 

tears  in  her  voice,  only  a  lingering  sadness. 
She  took  the  little  picture  from  me,  fastened 
the  case,  put  it  into  her  pocket,  all  so  quiet 
ly,  before  she  said :  "  When  I  die,  tell  them 
to  give  the  picture  to  you,  Annie ;  and  be 
tender  of  it.  child ;  don't  let  the  dust  and 
mould  gather  over  his  face  ;  be  tender  of 
the  little  picture  for  your  old  Aunt  Stella's 
sake ;"  and  the  tears  came  again ;  but  tears, 
I  think,  to  the  old  are  like  smiles  to  chil 
dren. 

After  that,  Aunt  Stella  told  me  a 

great  deal  about  her  life  —  more,  she  said, 
than  she  had  ever  told  any  one  before.  I 
am  so  glad  she  told  it  to  me.  I  think  know 
ing  of  her  will  give  me  courage,  if  God  sends 
trials.  And  she  told  me,  too,  of  His  grace, 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  j  j  3 

that  had  upheld  her,  " '  The  everlasting 
arms/  child — the  everlasting  arms — they  are 
always  underneath."  She  didn't  tell  me  of 
her  noble  self-sacrifice  and  self-forgetfulness ; 
but  I  know  something  of  that,  for  papa  has 
told  me. 

I  wonder  why  we  are  net  always  ten 
der  and  thoughtful  of  the  old  ?  I  wonder 
why  people  forget  so,  and  seem  to  think  the 
romance  and  the  dream  days  all  belong  to 
the  young,  never  seeming  to  have  a  thought 
for  the  stories  written  on  hearts  that  are  hid 
den  by  wrinkled  care-worn  faces  —  never 
seeming  to  think  of  the  pathos  of  lives  grown 
silent  and  tired  with  the  long  journey  — 
never  thinking  of  the  struggles,  the  noble 
deeds,  which  are  written  every  where — writ 
ten  in  the  old  faces,  looking  from  dim  eyes ; 
sounding  in  voices  from  which  the  music 
has  gone  ;  in  steps  grown  slow  and  halting, 
hands  trembling  and  strengthless.  Oh!  I 
wonder  we  ever  forget  all  this.  I  wonder 
we  are  not  always  tender  of  the  old.  But 
then,  of  course,  I  have  dear  grandpapa  and 
10* 


114 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


Aunt  Stella  now  to  make  me  feel  so ;  and 
they  have  taught  me  that  the  young  don't 
really  care,  often,  half  as  much  for  the  beau 
tiful  things  of  life,  and  never  need  them  as 
much  as  the  aged  people.  This  morning, 
when  I  came  in  with  my  apron  all  full  of 
flowers,  how  pleased  Aunt  Stella  was.  I  do 
think  she  cared  more  for  the  two  or  three 
"  prettiest  ones" — little  rose-buds — that  I  put 
in  a  tiny  vase,  and  stood  by  the  side  of  her 
Bible — more,  a  great  deal  more  than  I  did 
for  all  the  beautiful  bouquets  that  were  sent 
me  last  winter. 

I'm  glad  I  had  that  talk  with  Jack 

about  sorrow,  and  that  he  said,  "  God  would 
send  the  cross,  when  there  was  a  '  needs  be.' " 
And  I'm  so  glad,  too,  he  said,  all  I  had  to 
do,  now,  was  to  be  thankful  and  happy,  walk 
ing  the  pleasant  path  God  is  leading  me  in. 
I  remember  just  how  he  said :  "  If  the  stormy 
days  come,  Annie,  and  the  outside  sun  be 
hid,  keep  close  to  Christ ;  and  whatever  He 
sends,  let  His  warm  loving  grace  be  in  your 
heart,  and  you  will  be  happy."  I  suppose 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


the  reason  why  I  think  of  these  words  to 
night,  is  because  I  talked  so  long  with  Aunt 
Stella  about  sorrow. 


XVI. 

• 

HOW  we  change  about  from  place  to 
place !  Yesterday  I  sat  on  the  shady 
door-step  at  Aunt  Stella's,  and  wrote  in  my 
little  diary ;  and  to-night  I  am  a  way  off  here 
at  the  sea-side.  Aunt  Stella  felt  so  sorry  to 
have  me  leave ;  Hannibal  and  Chloe  too  ; 
and  I  felt  sorry  myself,  even  though  I  did 
want  to  come  to  Aunt  Mary.  I  do  dislike 
to  say  good-bye.  I  wish  we  could  go 
through  life  without  it.  And  I  don't  suppose 
I  shall  ever  see  dear  old  Aunt  Stella  again. 
"  Good-bye !"  'Tis  such  a  dreary  word.  If 
people  wouldn't  call  it  affected,  I  do  believe  I 
would  always  say,  "  Farewell."  That  speaks 
a  hope  with  the  parting  look ;  but  "  good 
bye  "  seems  so  desolate. Now,  "  good- 

(ii  6) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-  WO  OD.  j  j  7 

night "  is  different ;  but  then,  perhaps,  it  is 
only  in  the  seeming ;  and  why  I  think  it  dif 
ferent  is,  that  "  good-night "  always  seems  to 
me  the  spoken  word  that  expresses  the  si 
lent  "  God  bless  you ;"  but  papa  says,  I'm 
mistaken — that  good-bye  means,  "  God  be 
with  you,"  and  so  it  is  the  sweetest,  best 
leave-taking  word  we  can  say  to  a  friend. 
I  don't  believe  I  shall  mind  it,  now  that  I 
know  this. Papa  and  I  had  such  a  pleas 
ant  journey.  We  left  early  in  the  morning, 
just  as  the  sun  was  rising.  Hannibal  drove 
us  over  to  the  little  station.  We  had  to  wait 
for  the  cars.  The  train  creeps  along  so  on 
this  out-of-the-way  road,  stopping  at  every 
village,  we  only  just  connected  with  the 
train  from  the  West.  I  didn't  mind  its  slow 
ness  as  much  as  papa  did,  the  country 
through  which  we  passed  was  so  lovely,  and 
all  seemed  unlike  any  thing  I  had  ever  known 
before  of  journeying.  The  lazy-going  train, 
and  the  queer  country  people  that  came  in 
at  one  station  to  get  off  at  the  next — they 
all  seemed  to  know  one  another,  and  talked 


j  i  g  SUMMER  DELFT-  WOOD. 

so  fast  about  crops  and  the  weather.  Why, 
I  could  have  been  amused  all  day  with  the 
inside  view ;  but  the  outside  I  liked  better. 
All  the  way  we  kept  close  to  a  river ;  the 
water  was  so  clear,  and  the  reflections  far 
down  reaching,  every  little  leaf  and  twig 
was  pictured  in  the  quiet  water.  It  made  me 
think  of  how  Ruskin  says,  "  There  is  hardly 
a  little  road-side  pond,  or  pool,  which  has 
not  as  much  of  landscape  in  it  as  above  it." 

And  the  river,  it  caught  such  beauti 
ful  sky-pictures  ;  and  then  I  thought  of  how 
Ruskin  went  on  to  say :  "  Looking  deep 
enough,  we  see  the  serious  blue  of  the  far- 
off  sky,  and  the  passing  of  pure  clouds ;  and 
so  it  is  at  our  own  will,  whether  we  see  in 
the  despised  stream  the  refuse  of  the  street 
or  the  image  of  the  sky.  So  it  is  with  al 
most  all  other  things."  "Why  don't  we 
look  deep  down  into  these  water  places, 
which  catch  and  hold  the  upper  beauty  ? 
-  Thinking  these  thoughts,  breathing  the 
fresh  morning  air,  laden  with  herb  scents 
and  new-mown  hay  fragrance,  I  felt  so  hap- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

py.  Planning,  too,  for  the  winter  time,  when 
I  shall  be  at  home,  and  cannot  look  at  life 
only  reflected  in  the  calm  water,  but  must, 
if  I  would  tell  others  of  Christ,  walk  by  the 
pool  and  stream  made  muddy  by  sin  and 
wrong  doing.  Shall  I  have  courage  and  faith, 
I  wonder,  to  look  deep  enough  to  see  the 
"  image  of  the  sky"  then,  when  it  is  hidden 
by  so  much  ?  I  wonder  what  we  should  do, 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  promise,  "  My  grace  is 
sufficient — made  perfect  in  weakness"  ? 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  thinking 

so  hard,  I  fprgot  about  the  people  round 
me  ;  for  I  was  almost  frightened  when  a 
man  in  a  seat  just  in  front  of  us  sprang  up 
and  said :  "  Hark !  there's  the  death-bell 
tolling !"  And  then  I  heard  it — the  sound 
of  the  bell.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  hearing  of  this  old  custom — the  tolling 
of  the  church  bell,  to  carry  to  all  the  fami 
lies,  the  country  side  around,  the  message, 
"  Some  one  is  dead."  We  stopped  at  the 
village,  and  every  stroke  then  sounded  loud 
and  clear.  I  counted  fifteen  times  it  tolled. 


I2Q  SUMMER  DR/TT-WOOD. 

All  the  people  were  hushed,  and  it  was  in  a 
soft  voice  a  woman  asked  from  a  man  who 
came  in,  "  Who's  took  now  ?"  "  Widow 
Brown's  girl,"  he  replied.  "  Dreadful  sud 
den — she  was  just  the  likeliest  one  ever  I 
seed — going  on  for  sixteen  or  thereabouts." 

And  then  the  car  whistle  sounded,  and 

we  glided  out  of  the  village — passed  beyond 
the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell. 

The  Boston  train  was  so   crowded 

papa  couldn't  get  a  seat  with  me ;  but  he 
was  only  a  little  way  behind,  and  though  I 
couldn't  see  him,  \felt  he  was. there.  The 
little  things  that  are  happening  every  hour 
to  us  seem  like  messages  from  our  heavenly 
Father.  Just  the  feeling  that  I  was  still  in 
papa's  care,  though  I  couldn't  see  him, 
wakened  such  sweet,  peaceful  thoughts  of 
God's  care,  watching  over  His  children  all 
the  time.  And  then,  looking  about  on  the 
strange  faces,  (not  one  I  had  ever  seen  before,) 
I  thought  of  the  solitude,  the  desolation, 
that  must  come  to  one  when  in  a  crowd  of 
strangers  alone ;  and  what  I  should  do  with- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


121 


out  papa.     But  now  that  I  love  Christ,  I 
need  never  think  of  ever  being  alone ;  for 
always  the  Unseen  Friend  is  with  me. 
ii 


XVII. 

IT  does  seem  so  good  to  be  with  Aunt 
Mary  and  Fred  again ;  and  Jack  is  com 
ing  to-night.    When  Fred  told  me,  I  wanted 
to  clap  my  hands  with  joy;    but  ever  so 
many   people   were   standing  around,  so  I 

couldn't. This  morning  auntie  read  with 

me  the  passages  that  tell  of  the  coming  of 
Christ,  in  Matthew  and  Luke's  Gospels. 
Auntie  said  she  always  especially  enjoyed 
reading  these  records,  they  link  so  tenderly 
Jesus,  the  One  "  touched  with  the  feeling  of 
our  infirmity" — the  "Elder  Brother,"  with 
"  Emanuel,"  "  God  with  us."  From  Luke 
and  Matthew  we  turned  to  John,  who  lifts 
not  the  veil,  which  reveals  Christ  coming  as 
the  virgin's  son,  but  tells  us  of  the  Word,  and 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  i2-t 

that  the  "  Word  was  God—"  "And  the  Word 
was  made  flesh  and  dwelt  among  us,  full  of 
grace  and  truth"  —  "The  light  shining  in 
darkness,  and  the  darkness  comprehending 

not." Auntie  said  St.  Augustine  wrote 

of  the  four  evangelists :  "  The  first  three  in 
culcate  the  practical  duties  of  active  life  ; 
St.  John  dwells  on  the  ineffable  mysteries  of 
the  contemplative.  The  former  speak  of 
labor ;  the  last  speaks  of  rest.  The  former 
lead  the  way;  the  last  shows  our  Home." 
And  that  Chrysostom  wrote :  "  The  Gospel 
of  John  is  sweeter,  more  persuasive,  than  all 
the  harmony  of  music ;  most  holy — most  full 
of  unspeakable  glories,  and  conveying  great 
blessings."  Then  we  read  in  Isaiah  the 
strength  -  giving  assurance:  "The  Word  of 
our  God  shall  stand  for  ever" — the  glory  of 
the  Lord  shall  be  revealed  (this  is  a  beauti 
ful,  cheering  promise  to  read  and  connect 
with  that  verse  from  John — the  "darkness 
comprehended  not ;") — and  yet  "on  Him  the 
Lord  hath  laid  the  iniquities  of  us  all.  It 
pleased  the  Lord  to  bruise  Him" — "  Surely 
n* 


J24  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

He  hath  borne  our  griefs  and  carried  our  sor 
rows."  Aunt  Mary  said  those  words,  "  It 
pleased  the  Lord  to  bruise  Him,"  are  so 
laden  with  deep,  far-reaching  comfort  to 
her.  "Think,  Annie,"  she  said,  "of  the 
depth  of  God's  love  for  us,  revealed  in  them. 
God,  of  whom  David,  the  Israel  singer, 
wrote, '  Like  as  a  father  PITIETH/  was  pleased 
to  'put  Him  to  grief;'  and  why?  Christ 
gives  us  the  answer :  '  For  God  so  loved  the 
world  that  He  gave  His  only  begotten  Son, 
that  whosoever  believeth  in  Him  should  not 
perish,  but  have  everlasting  life.'  " 

1  do  enjoy  talking  with  Aunt  Mary 

so  much.  Before  she  began  her  daily  letter 
to  grandpapa,  we  sang  together  the  hymn 
that  begins,  "  God  is  love ;  His-mercy  bright 
ens."  The  two  last  verses  hold,  I  think,  the 
germ  of  all  auntie  had  been  saying : 

"  Ev'n  the  hour  that  darkest  seemeth, 

Will  his  changeless  goodness  prove  ; 
From  the  gloom  his  brightness  streameth; 
God  is  wisdom,  God  is  love. 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  i2$ 

"  He  with  earthly  cares  entwineth 

Hope  and  comfort  from  above ; 
Every  where  his  glory  shineth ; 
God  is  wisdom,  God  is  love." 

While  Aunt  Mary  was  writing,  I  took  up 
her  Bible,  which  lay  open  on  the  table,  and 
turned  the  leaves  from  Isaiah's  page  on  be 
yond  to  Ezekiel.  The  verse  my  eye  rested 
upon  was :  "  He  brought  me  to  the  gate, 
even  the  gate  that  looketh  toward  the  east." 
I  do  long  to  talk  with  Jack  about  these 
words — "  Looking  toward  the  east."  I  wish 
it  always  would  be  my  out-look,  and  why 
may  it  not  be  ?  For  surely  God  has  "  led 
and  brought"  me  to  the  "  eastward  gate." 

• Sometimes  the  Bible  seems  to  me  like 

a  new  book,  now  I  read  it  flooded  with 
light  from  the  "  bright  and  morning  star." 
How  wonderful  it  all  is!  There  is  much  I 
cannot  understand,  but  even  the  "  altogether 
dark  passages  have  a  foretaste  of  some  great, 
glorious  meaning,  which  I  shall  some  day 
know."  My  reading  this  morning  has  made 
me  feel  so  surrounded  by  the  "  great  cloud 


I26  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

of  witnesses."  The  love  of  Christ — it  breaks 
every  barrier.  Learned  and  unlearned,  poor 
and  rich,  sorrowful  and  glad,  we  are  all  one 
in  Him — Ezekiel,  the  prophet,  who  beheld 
"  the  glory  of  the  Lord"  coming  from  "  the 
rway  of  the  east;"  and  the  "little  child," 
whom  "  Christ  called  and  set  in  the  midst  of 
them."  I  do  like  these  eastward  verses  so 
much !  In  the  46th  chapter  it  is  written : 
"  Thus  saith  the  Lord  God  :  The  gate  of  the 
inner  court  that  looketh  toward  the  east 
shall  be  shut  the  six  working  days  ;  but  on 
the  Sabbath  it  shall  be  opened,  and  in  the 
day  of  the  new  moon  it  shall  be  opened." 
These  were  the  'directions  for  the  temple 
gate.  Onward  in  the  chapter  comes :  "  Now 
when  the  prince  shall  prepare  a  voluntary 
burnt-offering  or  peace  offerings  voluntarily 
unto  the  Lord,  One  shall  then  open  him  the 
gate  that  looketh  toward  the  east."  And 
the  "  Prince  of  Peace" — He  came ;  and  He 
said  :  "  I  lay  down  my  life — no  man  taketh 
it  from  me ;  but  I  lay  it  down  of  myself." 
So  it  is  through  Him  we  learn,  One  shall 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


127 


open  the  gate,  not  only  for  the  "  Sabbath 
and  the  new  moon  days,"  but  open  it,  too, 
for  "  the  six  working  days." 

I  love  to  think  how  the  years  rolled  on 
after  the  prophets  prophesied,  till  the  time 
appointed  came  for  that  "  eastward  gate 
opening;"  and  I  am  so  glad  that  not  only 
the  wise  men  beheld  the  "  Star  of  the  East" 
— not  only  they  who  would  come  laden  with 
gifts — "  frankincense,  gold  and  myrrh,"  but 
the  little  shepherd  band,  "  feeding  their  flocks 
by  night,"  they,  too,  heard  the  glad  "  Fear 
not,  for  unto  you  is  born  a  Saviour,  which  is 
Christ  the  Lord  ;*'  and  they  came,  "glorify 
ing  and  praising."  Ignorant  shepherds  and 
wise  men  together  they  met  around  Him. 

This  wonderful  underlying  unity  of  the 
Bible,  Jack  said  I  should  find  every  where. 
I  know  just  what  he  would  say  about  my 
thinkings  this  morning.  I  can  almost  hear 
his  voice  saying  :  "  Annie,  take  the  Eastward 
verse  as  a  motto  for  your  Christian  life." 

1  remember  he  told  me,  the  very  last 

day  we  were  on  the  mountains  together,  to 


I2g  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

watchfully  guard  my  heart,  lest  I  lost  from 
it  the  gladness  which  should  ever  be  the 
portion  of  the  Christian.  He  said,  often  he 
(it  seems  so  strange,  for  I  think  Jack  is  al 
ways  trying  and  trusting)  forgot,  or  rather 
overlaid  with  other  thoughts,  the  sweet  as 
surance  Christ  has  given,  that  our  sins  are 
blotted  out,  now,  by.  His  blood. 

It  has  poured  with  rain  all  day,  and  1 

have  not  had  even  a  glimpse  of  the  sea ;  but  I 
don't  mind,  for  Jack  will  be  here  to-morrow ; 
so  I  can  see  it  for  the  first  time  with  him. 
We  have  had  a  very  pleasant  day,  in  spite 
of  the  rain.  I  should  have  been  quite  con 
tent  to  have  stayed  in  our  room  talking  to 
auntie ;  but  after  she  had  finished  her  letter, 
she  said :  "  We  had  better  go  down  stairs. 
Who  knows,  Annie,  but  we  may  find  some 
work  to  do  for  the  Master  ?"  I  think  auntie 
feels  just  right  about  doing  good.  She  says 
we  must  not  wait  for  the  great  opportuni 
ties  ;  if  God  sees  we  are  fit  for  great  service, 
He  will  send  it  to  us ;  and  unless  we  first 
have  learned  to  do  the  little,  how  can  we  be 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  I2g 

ready  to  do  the  great.  Auntie  says,  too,  if 
I  am  careful  and  watchful  over  my  words 
and  actions,  I  can  have  that  most  effective 
of  all  influences,  the  silent  testimony  of  a 
heart  at  peace.  She  says  talking  to  Fred, 
telling  him  of  my  new-found  happiness  and 
hopes,  won't  do  him  half  as  much  good — 
won't  make  him  feel  they  are  nearly  so  real 
as  the  seeing  that  I  am  changed. 


XVIII. 

~T~ACK  is  come !  I'm  so  glad  !  'Twas  late 
*-)  last  night  before  he  arrived,  and  we  be 
gan  to  fear  the  storm  had  delayed  him  ;  but 
just  as  Aunt  Mary  and  I  were  saying  good 
night  to  Fred,  he  came.  Oh  !  it  did  seem 
so  pleasant  to  see  him,  and  he  looked  as 
though  he  was  very  glad,  too. 

This  morning  I  have  been  with  Jack 

for  my  first  look  at  the  sea.  Yesterday's 
storm  all  passed  away  with  the  night,  on 
the  land — not  a  trace  of  it  was  left ;  but  the 
sea-waves  were  dashing  wildly  and  foam- 
crested.  I  think  I  shall  learn  to  love  the 
ocean;  only  to-day  it  seemed  so  restless — 
so  struggling — almost  as  though  beneath  the 

waves  there  was  some  great  heart  bound  • 
(130) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  j^j 

and  I'm  so  happy,  I  want  to  look  only  on 
peaceful,  joyous  things.  The  waves  dashing 
upon  the  rocks  and  shore  seemed  longing  to 
find  some  resting  place — seemed  so  wanting 
to  escape  from  the  turbulent  water  behind 
them — lingering  for  a  moment  before  they 
began  the  rolling  back  again,  just  as  though 
they  were  sorry  to  be  lost  in  the  overlapping 
of  the  incoming  and  outgoing  waves. 

It  doesn't  make  Jack  feel  as  it  does 

me ;  he  says  it  is  strength  -  giving  to  him ; 
and  he  repeated  to  me  the  beautiful  Bible 
words,  where  the  Lord  promises  protection 
to  His  people — protection  from  the  "  billows 
and  the  waters."  Jack  glories  in  the  sea. 

I  think  he  almost  smiled  at  me  when  I 

said  it  made  me  sorrowful,  the  little  drops, 
when  the  waves  break,  they  "  leap  up  so 
toward  the  sun,"  and  they  look  so  pure  and 
white  in  the  sunlight,  but  quickly"  they  fall 
back  into  the  dark  water.  I  asked  Jack  if 
he  thought  I  should  be  like  a  little  ocean- 
drop  in  the  Christian  life  (sometimes  I'm  so 
afraid  I  shall) — just  reaching  forth,  seeming 


J32  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

pure,  bathed  in  the  heavenly  light,  but  only 
for  a  minute,  then  dropping,  Falling  a  way 
down  into  the  darkness  of  earth's  ways. 
Jack  said  I  needn't  be  afraid ;  and  then  he 
bade  me  look  up  into  the  clear  calm  sky,  and 
pointed  out  to  me  the  small  fleecy  clouds 
floating  up  so  near  the  deep  blue,  bathed  in 
the  glowing  sunlight  of  the  early  morning, 
and  he  asked  me,  "  Did  I  not  know  once  the 
clouds  were  little  ocean-drops,  sighing,  per 
haps,  as  they  leaped  up  and  fell  back ;  but, 
at  last,  the  sun  had  drawn  them  up  to  him 
self."  "  So,  little  Annie,"  he  said,  "  it  is  with 
us  ;  we  are  but  drops  in  the  great  ocean  of 
human  souls ;  we  leap  and  struggle,  we  fail 
and  fall  back  with  a  sigh ;  but  never  need 
we  lose  heart,  for  always  above  us  is  the 
1  Sun  of  righteousness'  shining,  and,  if  we  be 
faithful,  in  His  own  good  time  He  will  lift 
us  up  even  unto  Himself.  And  He  is  called 
the  '  Fountain  of  Living  Waters.'  You  know 
it  is  a  law  in  nature  that  water  will  always 
rise  to  its  own  level.  Now,  comparing  the 
Holy  Spirit  to  living  water,  see  how  beauti- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  I?* 

fully  the  salvation  of  the  redeemed  is  set 
forth.  The  living  water — the  Holy  Spirit — 
comes  down  from  our  God,  enters  the  sin 
ner's  heart,  and,  rising  to  its  own  level  again, 
returns  to  God,  springing  up  into  everlast 
ing  life." 

The  sea  says  so  much  to  Jack ;  even  the 
little  mosses  are  full  of  whispers  to  him. 
He  gathered  my  basket  quite  full  of  beau 
ties — bright  green,  rosy  red,  soft  pink,  and 
brown -tinted  ones.  He  calls  them  the 
"  flowers  of  the  sea,"  and  he  says  if  we  don't 
want  to  look  for  a  deeper  meaning,  he  thinks 
these  little  waifs  of  the  ocean,  scattered  all 
over  the  beach,  must  always  be  full  of  deli 
cate  fancies — Undine  dreams — murmurs  of 
coral  homes — pearly  nooks  where  the  water- 
flowers  grow  ;  and  then  he  laughed  and  said : 
"  Why,  Annie,  if  there  be  a  heart,  as  you 
fancy,  chained  below  the  wild  sea-waves,  it 
is  a  generous  heart,  isn't  it,  to  toss  so  freely 
these  little  beauty  blossoms  on  the  shore  for 
us?"  But  I  don't  know  why,  Jack  didn't 
make  it  seem  different  to  me;  the  little 

12 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

mosses  would  seem  like  "  fragments  of  songs 
dropped  from  broken  hearts."  Perhaps  it 
was  the  memory  of  yesterday's  storm  that 
made  them  seem  to  me  tossed  up  by  some 
great  grief.  Jack  said :  "  If  they  make  you 
feel  so,  Annie,  let  us  learn  a  lesson  from 
them,  and  if  ever  the  time  comes  when  God 
sends  us  some  great  sorrow,  let  us  think  of 
this  morning,  when  we  stand  so  restful,  so 
happy,  and  yet  so  near  we  are  to  the  restless 
throbbing  ocean — think  of  yesterday's  storm, 
and  think,  too,  that  out  of  its  conflict  it  has 
brought  to  us,  hot  moans  and  sighs,  but 
these  bright  pleasure-giving  mosses,  seeming 
full  of  joy,  even  though  they  came  in  the 
dark  stormy  night.  I  think  they  are  stamped 
with  the  assurance — '  Though  God  has  sent 
the  storm — though  He  has  torn  us  from  our 
rock  homes,  dashing  us  upon  this  earthly 
shore — we  children  of  the  ocean,  all  stran 
gers  to  the  land  ; — yet  since  He  has  done  it, 
we  won't  lose  our  brightness  —  our  colors, 
caught  from  the  rain-bow — the  heavenly  bow 
of  promise,  that  makes  us  not  afraid,  though 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


135 


the  way  has  been  rough,  and  the  land  is 
strange.'  " I  wonder  if  I  could  bear  sor 
row  so  ?  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  it  would  be  so 
terrible,  if  those  I  love  best  were  taken,  to 
still  wear  a  smile  on  my  face — to  be  clothed 
with  bright  colors,  when  all  the  time  my 
heart  would  be  so  dark. 

But  Jack  said  the  rainbow   colors 

were  not  made  by  man;  that  God  could 
make  by  His  light  the  darkest  drops  all 
beautiful  and  shining;  and  he  said,  too,  he 
always  linked  with  the  rainbow  a  thought 
of  the  blessings  Christ  promised,  when  from 
the  "  mountain  side"  He  taught  the  people. 
"  Do  you  catch  my  meaning,  Annie  ?"  he 
said.  "  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you.  Christ 
said,  '  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit.'  That 
means  the  gentle,  submissive  ones,  who 
bow  before  His  will,  without  a  murmuring 
thought — 'the  contrite  and  broken  spirits, 
with  whom  I  will  dwell,  saith  the  high  and 
lofty  One,  who  inhabiteth  eternity,  whose 
name  is  Holy.'  To  them  the  blessing  of 
heaven  is  promised,  and  violet  I  call  their 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

color,  the  hue  that  seeks  not  notice,  but  is 
one  of  the  sweetest,  most  soothing  of  all  the 

varied  tints. And  then  comes,  '  Blessed 

are  they  that  mourn.'  Don't  you  link  the 
indigo  with  the  mourning,  so  dark,  so  dreary 
to  our  eye,  if  we  look  at  it  alone ;  but  soft 
•when  blended  in  with  its  sister  blue;  not 
dark,  even  if  alone,  when  we  can  by  faith 
read  the  '  shall  be  comforted ' — sorrow  shall 

be  turned  into  joy  ? Blue,  'tis  well  that 

should  be  the  symbol  of  the  meek — the  sym 
bol  of  those  who  'delight  themselves  in 

peace.' Green,  Annie,  we   will  choose 

for  the  '  hungering  and  thirsting/  because 
green  is  the  all-bountiful  color  that  clothes 
the  trees,  fields,  and  plants ;  and  so  it  seems 
to  me  the  color  that  holds  the  promised 
blessing,  'they  shall  be  filled.'  And  the 
merciful  they  who  '  shall  obtain  mercy/  yel 
low,  the  golden,  it  surely  belongs  to  them,  for 
theirs  is  a  golden  promise.  Orange  for  the 
'  peace  makers' — that,  too,  is  golden,  but  of 
a  richer,  deeper  shade,  just  as  their  promised 
blessing  is  fuller ;  for  what  is  like  in  bless- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


137 


ing  to  being  called  '  The  children  of  God.' 
And  red,  I  think  it  is  for  the  '  persecuted — 
the  reviled ' — they  to  whom  comes  much  of 
suffering  —  many  wounds,  but  who  have 
known  the  strength  of  'my  presence  shall 

go  with  you.' The  '  pure  in  heart,'  they 

who  '  shall  see  God' — let  us  choose  for  them 
white,  the  pure  white  robes,  '  washed  white 
in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb.'  White,  the  '  spirit 
light,'  that  mingles  the  colors  all  in  one,  till 
color  is  lost  and  disappears  before  the  '  great 
Light' — just  as  all  the  blessings  seem  to 
grow  dim  and  become  one,  in  that  greatest 
of  all  blessings  which  is  the  heritage  of  the 
'  pure  in  heart,  who  shall  see  God.'  " 

All  this  about  the  beatitudes  and  the 

colors  I  know  are  just  thoughts  of  Jack's ; 
but  it  helps  me  so  much  to  hear  him  talk 
thus.  It  seems  to  make  it  all  more  real  when 
we  associate  the  beauties  of  nature  with  the 
deeper  beauties  of  the  spirit  life  revealed  by 
the  inspired  words ;  and  I  don't  think  it  can 
be  irrelevant.  I'm  so  glad  Luther,  who  kept 
close  to  the  truth,  said,  "  God  has  written 
12* 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

the  Gospel  not  only  in  the  Bible,  but  in  trees 

and    flowers,   stars    and    clouds." And 

then  it  is  such  a  happy  feeling,  the  knowing 
God  my  Father — "  Our  Father "  makes  all 
these  beautiful  things  for  us ;  gives  them  to 
us  as  a  foretaste  of  the  joys  and  beauty  laid 
up  for  those  who  love  Him.  And  it  adds  so 
much  to  my  gladness,  the  having  Jack  to 
help  me  interpret  these  expressions  of  His 
infinite  love — these  shadowy  hints  of  the  in 
effable  glory  of  the  "  Upper  Land." 


XIX. 

I  WONDER  why  people  call  me  "  little 
Annie,"  and  "  child  ?"  I  don't  mind  much, 
but  sometimes  I  can't  help  wishing  they 
wouldn't.  I  think  nineteen  is  real  old.  Aunt 
Mary  says  it  is  because  they  love  me.  I 
wonder  if  any  body  ever  had  so  many  pet 
names  as  I  have  ?  I  suppose  I  always  shall 
seem  a  child  to  papa,  Aunt  Mary,  and  grand 
papa  ;  but  the  other  people,  that  don't  really 
love  me  and  didn't  know  me  when  I  was  a 
little  girl,  why  do  they  do  it  ? 

We  had  a  beautiful  long  walk  this 

morning — auntie,  Jack  and  I,  going  to  a  jut 
of  rocks  quite  at  the  end  of  the  eastern 
beach ;  and  there  we  had  a  long,  long  talk, 
sitting  on  the  rocks,  looking  out  over  the 

('39) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

sea.  It  is  so  calm,  hardly  stirred  by  a  ripple, 
to-day,  restful  and  still,  seeming  not  at  all  as 
it  did  that  first  day  after  Jack  came ;  and  yet 
the  "real  repose"  all  the  time  was  there, 
hidden  away  down  below  the  tossing  waves, 
just  as  in  our  hearts,  I  think,  if  we  really 
love  Christ,  there  must  always  be  ^a  deep 
inward  peace,  whatever  the  outside  may  be ; 
only  I  suppose,  sometimes,  if  trials  are  very 
heavy,  we  hardly  hear  its  murmur — hardly 
heed  it ;  and  then  the  waves  we  see  dashing 
round  us,  they  must  .seem  so  much  nearer 
than  the  under-current  calm. 

Jack  said  I  was  wrong  in  saying  or  think 
ing  so  —  that  Christ's  peace  and  love,  he 
thought,  never  seemed  so  near  as  when  we 
were  storm-tossed.  "  There  are  some  com 
forts,  Annie,  which  we  never  reach  except 
through  suffering.  It  has  often  seemed  to 
me  they  are  among  the  richest."  Jack's  life 
hasn't  been  all  glad  and  happy  like  mine.  I 
used  to  feel  sorry  about  it,  but  since  every 
thing  has  changed  so  much  to  me,  and  life 
seems  just  lent  to  us  to  do  Christ's  work,  I 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


141 


am  glad,  because  I  think  the  having  known 
sorrow  makes  him  so  much  tenderer,  will 
make  him  so  much  more  able  to  be  a  conso 
lation-giver  when  he  is  a  minister. 

Jack  asked  Aunt  Mary  if  she  remem 
bered  the  old  saying:  "  Never  to  rest  is  the 
penalty  paid  for  our  greatness."  She  replied 
to  him  by  repeating  some  German  lines.  I 
couldn't  understand  them  very  well,  so  Jack 
told  them  to  me  in  English,  though  he  said 
translating  German  was  like  trying  to  ex 
plain  a  look ;  in  the  process  its  spirit  charm 
vanished.  But  I  don't  think  it  did  this  time. 
He  was  so  kind,  saying  them  over  two  or 
three  times,  till  I  know  them  by  heart : 

"  Rest  is  not  quitting 
The  busy  career; 
Rest  is  the  fitting 

Of  self  to  one's  sphere. 

"  "Tis  the  brook's  motion, 
Clear,  without  strife; 
Meeting  to  ocean, 
After  this  life. 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

"  'Tis  loving  and  serving 

The  highest  and  best ; 

'Tis  onward  unswerving ; 

And  this  is  true  rest." 

I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  live  in  the  real  in 
ner  spirit  of  this  rest  ? — my  soul  always  quiet, 
like  the  under-current  of  the  ocean — never 
troubled  by  the  restless,  changing,  upper 

water. Jack  and   auntie  said  so  much 

that  I  have  been  feeling  these  last  few  weeks, 
it  seemed  as  though  my  heart  was  speaking 
with  their  voices.  Jack  said  these  "  Rest 
lines"  of  Goethe's  met  and  answered  so 
beautifully  to  him  the  seeming  contradiction 
that  so  often  Christians  meet  in  the  early 
days  of  their  believing  and  following  Christ. 
He  said  he  thought  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  the  new  life,  many  became  disheartened, 
because  where  they  had  thought  to  find  rest, 
they  found  conflict.  "Labor  and  Rest"  so 
closely  associated — "  the  one  seeming  neces 
sary  to  lead  to  the  other — the  one  longed 
for,  the  other  shrunk  from" — the  conflict  of 
which  Paul  wrote:  "After  ye  were  illumi- 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOJ). 

nated,  ye  endured  a  great  fight  of  afflic 
tions."  Aunt  Mary  said :  "  Yes,  all  must 
know  the  feeling.  How  could  it  be  other 
wise?  When  God  takes  us  by  the  hand, 
and  leads  the  soul  from  darkness  into  light — 
when  Jesus  is  revealed  to  us  in  His  perfect 
beauty,  we  must  be  filled  with  longings  so 
intense,  to  be  pure  even  as  He  is  pure,  that 
instead  of  entering  on  a  life  of  calm  repose — 
tranquil  meditation  hours,  we  see  before  us 
new  unthought-of  conflicts ;  we  find  th?t 
always,  not  only  now  and  then,  but  always, 
the  soul  must  be  on  the  alert,  watching  over 
self — laboring  for  others,  if  we  would  be  fol 
lowers  of  Him  who  '  went  about  doing 
good.'  And  this  coming  to  Christ,  we 
thought  it  was  coming  to  rest,  and  so  it  is — 
rest  the  deepest,  most  soul-satisfying,  even 
though  we  catch  only  its  reflection  here — 
peace  in  the  heart."  I  asked  Jack  if  he  re 
membered  the  talk  we  had  about  peace  and 
rest  when  we  were  among  the  mountains. 
I  do  love  Jack's  smile  when  he  is  pleased. 
He  gave  me  one  then,  while  he  said :  "  The 


144 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


spirit  of  this  rest,  found  in  loving  and  serv 
ing  the  highest — the  best  —  the  loving  and 
serving,  which  is  the  fitting  of  self  to  one's 
sphere — the  sphere  of  following  close  after 
Christ,  it  comes  and  steals  into  the  soul  with 
every  act  of  self-sacrifice — every  deed  of  self 
denial  that  is  done  for  His  sake — every  little 
love-thought  that  wakens  in  the  heart,  be 
cause  of  love  to  Jesus.  The  'cup  of  cold 
water/  even,  when  given  in  His  name,  is  filled, 
I  think,  with  drops  of  peace  and  happiness  for 
the  giver.  So  that  ere  long  we  thankfully 
bind  together  the  labor  and  the  rest;  and 
Paul's  '  fight  of  afflictions'  are  over-laid  by 
the  sustaining  assurance,  they  come  '  after 
we  are  illuminated.'  " 

I  told  Jack  the  rest  promises  of  Christ 

seemed  to  me  to  mean,  too,  the  rest  of  trust 
ing  ;  and  so  we  did  know  something  of  it 

here. The  happy  faith  that  God  is  our 

Father,  and  that  He  will  give  us  all  good,  I 
think  "  that  is  rest" 

Auntie  felt  tired,  but  Jack  took,  me 

round  the  point  of  rocks,  where  we  had  a 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  j^c 

clear  unbroken  view,  way  out  over  the  sea. 
He  talked  with  me  so  kindly  and  encour 
agingly  about  next  winter,  and  helped  me 
make  many  plans  for  what  I  want  to  do ;  he 
gave  me  so  many  new  ideas  for  teaching  the 
class  of  poor  children  I  am  going  to  take  in 
Sunday-school.  They  are  to  be  just  rough 
street  boys,  but  Jack  says  I  will  find,  if  I 
seek  prayerfully,  treasures  hidden  behind 
their  roughness.  Wouldn't  it  be  beautiful 

if  I  could  help  them  to  come  to  Christ. I 

asked  Jack  how  we  could  find  our  "true 
sphere."  He  said,  "  Do  the  little  things  close 
to  you,  Annie,  and  you  will  be  safe."  We 
were  having  such  a  pleasant  talk,  when 
Auntie  called  to  us,  "  The  tide  was  fast  com 
ing  in,  and  we  must  hasten  back ;"  but  I  am 

so  glad   of  what  Jack  did   say. How 

much  wood  he  has  given  me  for  my  winter 
fire.  I  think  he  has  helped  make  more  than 
half  the  bundle,  I  have  already  gathered,  to 
unbind  with  grandpapa. 


XX. 

HOW  shall   I  tell  it,  even  to  my  little 
"  heart  book"  ?    How  shall  I  tell  this 
beautiful,  great  unthought  of  happiness,  God 
has  made  my  life  so  perfect,  so  full,  by  send 
ing  ? Why,  I  never  thought  Jack  loved 

me  so;  and  now,  though  it  is  two  weeks 
since  he  told  me,  it  seems,  even  yet,  like  a 
dream,  too  glad  and  happy  to  really  belong 
to  me.  Oh !  I  wish  I  were  better — I  wish  I 
knew  more — were  more  worthy  of  his  love. 

Jack  said  he  did  not  mean  to  tell  me 

so  soon,  though  papa,  who  has  known  all 
about  it  for  ever  so  long,  said  he  might.  I 
wonder  what  made  him  tell  me  that  day.  I 
wonder  if  there  ever  was  a  morning  so  beau 
tiful  as  the  morning  when  he  whispered  it 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

to  me  —  whether  the  sunshine  was  ever  so 
bright  before  and  every  thing  so  glad. 

1  don't  need  to  write  it  down  to  re 
member  it,  for  it  is  all  written  in  blue  and 
golden  letters  in  my  heart ;  but  some  day 
in  the  far  away  years,  perhaps,  when  Jack 
and  I  are  old — old  like  grandpapa  and  Aunt 
Stella — we  shall  like  to  read  this  sweet  his 
tory  of  our  "  spring  time ;"  not  to  make  us 
remember  it,  but  just  because,  when  our  eyes 
and  hearts  have  grown  old,  looking  back 
will  seem  so  unlike  this  real  living  time  we 
are  in  now ;  and  then,  when  the  changes  of 
time  are  written  on  our  faces — engraven  on 
our  souls,  I  think  it  will  be  so  beautiful  to 
sit  with  my  hand  in  his,  and  together  read 
the  record  of  these  glad  young  days. 

It  was  the  early  morning ;  a  party  of 

us  started  to  spend  the  livelong  day  in  clam 
bering  over  the  cliffs,  hunting  for  sea-mosses 
— listening  to  the  "wild  waves'  sayings." 
Carrie  was  with  us,  (she  came  only  the  day 
before,)  and  in  her  glad,  care-free  way,  she 
hummed  to  herself  a  little  love  song,  that 


148    •  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

I  think  no  one  heard  but  Jack  and  I.     Gail}' 
springing  from  rock  to  rock,  she  sang : 

"  Go  not,  happy  day, 
From  the  shining  fields  ; 
Go  not,  happy  day, 
Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  west, 
Rosy  is  the  south, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 
And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  'Yes' 
Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news, 
O'er  the  blowing  ships — 
Over  blowing  seas — 
Over  seas  at  rest." 

I  don't  think  it  was  the  song  made  Jack 
say  it  then.  I  don't  know — it  seems  to  me 
it  wasn't  that.  The  beautifnl  look  came  into 
his  face,  not  while  Carrie  sang,  but  when  his 
eye  fell  on  my  hand,  which  rested  in  his,  as 
we  climbed  over  the  rough,  rocky  places. 

It  looked   so   little,  when  held  in  his 

great  strong  man's  hand. But  I  don't 

know  what  made  him  say  it ;  I  only  know  I 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

am  happy,  oh!  so  happy!  Why!  I  can't 
write  about  it — words  don't  tell  one  bit  of 
my  gladness. 

It  seems  so  strange  to  think  of  all  the 

summer  days  behind  us ;  but  when  I  didn't 
belong  to  Jack,  even  though  it  is  such  a  lit 
tle  while  ago  since  I  really  did,  it  seems 
as  though  always  we  had  loved  and  been 

just  as  now. We  have  made  so  many 

plans  for  the  time  when  we  can  work  to 
gether  for  Jesus. 

Jack  says  he  is  poor ;  that  he  cannot 

give  me  a  home  rich  and  costly  like  papa's, 
and  that  this  troubles  him.  He  don't  like 
to  think  of  my  not  having  every  thing  beau 
tiful  around  me ;  but  I  told  him  he  was  my 
home,  and  so  I  couldn't  help  having  all  beau 
tiful,  happy  things,  because  he  just  satisfies 

every  thing  in  me. 1  think  it  made  him 

glad  to  know  I  felt  so ;  and  yet  he  told  me 
I  must  not  love  him  too  well,  and  he  traced 
on  the  sand  the  verse :  "  Little  children,  keep 
yourselves  from  idols,"  and  bade  me  read  it. 
When  he  saw  the  tears  were  in  my  eyes,  be- 
13* 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

cause  I  thought  he  was  displeased  with  me, 
he  drew  me  close  to  his  side  and  whispered : 
"  I  need  the  verse,  little  one,  as  much  as 
you ;  let  us  help  one  another  to  remember 
it ;"  and  then  it  was  that  Jack  consecrated 
our  love  by  a  spoken  prayer.  I  know  our 
hearts  had  been  full  of  thanksgiving  and 
praise  every  hour  of  the  time  since  our  joy 
began ;  but  not  till  then  did  he  breathe  the 
words  aloud.  Keeping  me  all  the  time  close 
to  his  side,  he  asked  our  Heavenly  Father 
"to  bless  and  keep  us  ever  near  to  Him, 
drawing  us  by  this  great  happiness  to  a 
fuller  consecration  of  all  to  Christ's  service — 
strengthening  us  for  all  His  love  may  send, 
whether  of  joy  or  sorrow — helping  us  ever 
to  say,  '  Thy  will  be  done,'  filling  our  hearts 
with  the  abiding  presence  of  the  Hoi} 
Spirit." 


XXI. 

I  TOLD  Jack  I  didn't  want  to  wait  till 
Christmas  time  to  know  the  meaning  of 
the  wreath  he  made  for  me  to  wear  that 
night  when  we  were  on  the  mountain,  and 
that  I  knew  I  never  could  guess ;  so  he  told 
me.  He  said,  long,  long  ago,  when  I  was  a 
very  little  child,  one  day  he  was  playing  ball 
with  Fred,  before  we  came  to  live  in  the 
city.  I  was  sitting,  all  wrapped  up  in  my 
scarlet  cloak  on  a  little  seat  they  had  made 
for  me,  watching  them,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
I  ran  off  in  pursuit  of  one  of  the  airy,  wind 
blown  down-balls,  shouting :  "  Me  see  it — me 
see  it — a  angel — a  angel,"  and  then,  he  said, 
a  breeze  wafted  the  little  thing  in  my  reach, 

('SO 


152 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


and  I  caught  it  in  my  tiny  hand,  jumping-  up 
and  down  with  delight,  exclaiming  :  "  Me's 
got  a  angel;  grandpapa,  wee  Annie  has 
cotched  a  angel,"  and  into  the  house  I  ran, 
he  and  Fred  after  me ;  but  when  I  opened 
my  hand,  straight  out  flew  the  little  captive, 
up  to  the  ceiling  and  then  out  of  the  win 
dow,  to  fly  over  other  gardens  than  ours ; 
and  I  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  cried :  "  Me 
angel's  lost ;  me  so  sorry ;  naughty,  naughty 

angel,  to  fly  away  from  little  Annie." 

I  remember  all  about  it  now,  and  how  Fred 
laughed  at  me,  and  how  Jack  sat  down  by 
my  side  and  told  me  a  long  story  about  the 
thistle-down,  and  how  soon  he  comforted 
me. 

It  seems  so  strange,  but,  oh,  so  beau 
tiful  !  Jack  says  he  has  loved  me  better  than 
any  one  else,  ever  since  then.  And  he  says, 
when  he  saw  me  that  evening,  standing  in 
the  moonlight,  dressed  all  in  pure  gauzy 
white,  the  memory  of  the  day  came  over  him 
when  I  shouted,  "  Me's  caught  a  angel,"  and 
he  could  hardly  resist  the  longing  to  take 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  jcjg 

me  right  up  in  his  arms  and  whisper  my 
own  words  over  to  me.  And  he  says,  then 
for  the  first  time  came  the  fear,  what  if  she 
should  fly  away  like  the  little  thistle-down  ? 
and  he  resolved  to  wait  till  sure  I  would 
come  to  him  all  of  my  own  will ;  and  this  was 
why  he  looked  so  sorry  when  I  asked  him 
how  he  fastened  the  airy  thing  on  my  wreath, 
and  so  glad  when  I  said  it  looked  as  if  it 
were  resting  of  its  own  sweet  will.  So  now 
I  know  how  I  came  to  be  called  little 
"  thistle-down."  I  love  it  best  of  all  my  pet 
names — better,  because  it  belongs  entirely 
to  Jack,  and  nobody  else  will  ever  think  of 
calling  me  so. 

Jack  said  there  was  a  deeper  meaning 

to  the  wreath.  The  ferns  he  chose  because 
they  were  up-springing  in  lowly,  unlocked 
for  places,  sometimes  the  most  beautiful  ones 
growing  in  out-of-the-way  nooks ;  and  thus 
he  wanted  me  to  be  sweetest  and  best  in 
doing  the  little  duties  of  life,  never  thinking 
aught  "too  good"  for  the  out-of-the-way 
nooks.  The  clover  blossom  was  the  flower 


^4  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

he  selected  for  its  many  meanings — the  flow 
er  full  of  honey,  that  the  busy  bee  seeks 
nourishment  from  —  the  little  flower  that 
points  the  "  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills "  to 
the  greenest  richest  pasture  meadows — the 
flower  whose  three-fold  leaf  whispers  of  the 
graces,  "  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity" — whis 
pers,  too,  of  the  most  sacred  threefold  One, 
the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Spirit."  And 
though  it  contains  all  these  meanings,  it 
is  nothing  but  an  humble  blossom.  "  The 
thistle-down,  Annie,"  Jack  went  on  to  say, 
"  think  how  it  flies  from  place  to  place,  al 
ways  carrying  sweet  thoughts  of  the  coun 
try,  green  fields  and  summer  verdure.  So, 
my  darling,  I  want  you  to  be  always  bear 
ing  the  sign  of  purity,  as  this  silver-winged 
messenger  does — always  carrying '  the  Word' 
—  wafting  the  'good  news,'  wherever  the 
spirit  leads  you."  There  were  other  dear 
little  words  Jack  told  me  about  the  hopes 
he  twined  in  with  my  wreath,  but  they  are 
too  dear  for  me  to  let  out  of  my  heart,  even 
into  my  little  diary. 


SUM3IER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


155 


To-morrow  is  the  first  autumn  day. 

I  dread  it  a  little  bit.  I  don't  want  the  leaves 
to  fall,  or  the  flowers  to  fade — they  seem 
to  belong  to  "my  summer;"  and  I  want  to 
keep  them  fresh  always,  and  then — I  know  I 
mustn't  feel  so,  for  Jack  will  be  away  from 
me  all  winter ;  but  I  dread  to-morrow,  be 
cause  he  is  going  just  for  the  day — "  coming 
back  with  the  twilight."  Jack  says,  "  com 
ing  so  early,  we  will  see  the  sun  set  to 
gether,  little  one." He  promised  when 

he  first  came  to  go  with  this  sailing  party  out 
beyond  the  light-house,  so  he  can't  refuse ; 
though  I  don't  think  he  wants  to  go  half  as 
much  as  he  wants  to  stay  with  me. 


XXII. 

~T~T  is  winter  now — the  leaves  have  fallen 

J the  flowers  faded — my  summer  ended 

— and  my  girl  heart,  the  happy  glad  young 

time,  is  all  over. It  is  four  long  months 

since  he  left  me,  and  yet,  sometimes,  it  seems 

but  a  few  hours. It  was  all  so  sudden, 

so  unthought  of. That  quiet,  sunshiny 

morning,  when  we  stood  together  looking 
over  the  peaceful  sea,  its  smooth,  tranquil 
waters,  broken  only  by  gentlest  ripples ;  the 
morning  breeze  hardly  stirred  the  tall  grass 
by  our  side ;  the  sky  bent  so  lovingly  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  blending  into  the  ocean 
till  sky  and  sea  were  lost  together  in  the 

horizon  line. I  remember  it  all  so  well — • 

the  laughing  group  of  children  on  the  bank 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


157 


— tne  song  of  a  bird — how  he  stooped  and 
gathered  for  me  the  tiny  moss  spray  of  rose 
color ;  how  we  tossed  pebbles  into  the  wa 
ter;  and  then  the  boat's  coming,  with  its 
gay  company,  breaking  the  quiet  hush  with 

merry  laughter  and  morning  greetings ; 

and  then, just  the  whispered  "  good 
bye,  my  little  thistle-down,  till  evening 

comes ;" and  he  was  gone — sailing  away 

out  on  the  blue  calm  water. 

I  can't  write  of  what  came  after,  only 

at  evening  time  the  quiet  sea  of  the  morning 
was  white  with  foam-tossed  waves ;  the  blue 
sky,  that  bent  over  us  so  lovingly,  was  hid 
den  by  dark  storm-clouds ;  the  breeze  that 
stirred  the  grass  with  gentlest  motion,  had 
changed  to  the  wild  moaning  of  the  wind  ; 
the  laughing  children — the  song  bird — they 

were  silent, and  he — the  strong  loving 

one,  who  stood  by  my  side— where  was  he  ? 
Far — oh,  so  far — away  from  me. 

The  little  boat  load — they  sailed  out 

to  the  horizon  line,  and  there  they  left  him. 

I  waited  out  in  the  dark — tne  cold, 


158 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


desolate  dark — and  Jack — he  did  not  come. 
But  by-and-by  they  told  me  he  had  gone 
for  ever — beyond  the  horizon  line — beyond 
the  dark — gone — into  the  Light. 


XXIII. 


LONG  days  followed — weary  nights  — 
hours  of  darkness.  —  "  Good  -  bye  till 
evening  comes,"  over  and  over  I  say  his 
farewell  words — but  he  does  not  come — his 
dear  voice,  that  always  I  thought  was  to 
comfort  me,  is  silent.  But  it  hasn't  all  been 
dark — Jesus,  who  long  ago  quieted  the 
storm-tossed  waves,  has  whispered,  "  Peace, 

be  still." And  I  have  learned  to  feel 

He  was  with  Jack  when  the  waves  hid  him 
from  my  sight.  I  know  he  heard  the  mur 
mur,  "  Peace,  be  still,"  louder,  clearer,  than 
the  dashing  waves.  I  know  in  that  hour  of 
mortal  peril,  calmly  his  soul  soared  above 
the  wild  water,  above  the  cruel,  devouring 
sea,  that  claimed  the  precious  casket ;  only 

('59) 


SUMMUS  DRIFT-WOOD.  - 

at  first,  I  couldn't  feel  it  as  I  do  now. • 

At  first,  I  wanted  just  one  word — one  look. 
At  first,  even  the  words  of  Christ  fell  on  my 

heart  all  dead  and  cold. And  now,  it  is 

very  lonely — the  hours  are  very  dark — and 
sometimes  the  path  seems  so  rough  to  travel. 

1  want  to  lay  my  head  down  and  cry 

the  dull  pain  away.  I  want  Jack  to  lift  it  up 
— and  bid  me  weep  no  more.  I  want — oh 
so  much — to  hear  his  voice  just  once  again. 

But  it  is  all  silent. Every  one  has  been 

so  good  to  me — so  patient  with  my  grief — 
speaking  kind,  tender  words — consolation 
promises  repeating — -telling  of  the  time  not 
very  far  off,  when  "  I  shall  go  to  him  who 
cannot  return  to  me."  I  try  to  listen  to  their 
words,  but  I  don't  think  they  comfort  me 
much.  They  have  sent  me  books  full  of 
tender  sympathy,  written  by  sorrow-stricken 
ones,  who  strive  to  make  heaven  seem  near 
er — our  dear  ones  not  so  very  far  off— by 
telling  of  the  glimpses  they  have  caught  of 
the  Beyond.  But  the  books  don't  comfort 
me;  they  don't  bring  Jack  nearer-  they 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD.  l^l 

don't  make  heaven  seem  more  like  home ; 
they  don't  lead  me  closer  to  Christ;  and 
only  as  I  reach  out  and  find  Him,  do  I  find 

consolation. And  yet   they  have  made 

me  think — think  so  much  what  I  do  believe 
— what  I  do  look  forward  to — what  it  is  that 
fills  my  soul  with  longings  to  be  There — 
have  made  me  ask,  Is  it  that  I  want  to  go  to 
Jack — whose  going  away  has  made  this 
earthly  life'  so  lonely — or  is  it  that  I  want  to 
go  where  Jesus  is  ? 

When  I  read  of  the  heavenly  city,  the 

streets  of  gold,  the  pearly  gates,  the  green 
pastures,  the  still  waters,  is  it  the  material, 
pictured  beauty  of  that  "upper  land"  I  long 
for  ? — or  is  its  beauty  to  me  centered  round 
the  blessed  promise,  "  The  glory  of  God 
shall  lighten  it,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  light 

thereof"  ? When  I  read  of  the  weary  at 

rest — of  the  land  where  no  night  comes — • 
where  "  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  nei 
ther  sorrow  nor  sighing,"  is  it  that  my  eyes 
have  been  tearful  so  long — is  it  that  my  life 
is  darkened  with  shadows  heavy  and  hard 
14* 


j52  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

to  bear — is  it  this  that  makes  me  long  to  be 
There  ? — or  is  it  that  I  sigh  for  that  waking, 
when  I  shall  be  "  satisfied,  because  I  awake 
in  '  His  presence '  "  ? 

Only  stammering  answers  can  I  give ; 

but  Christ  knows  I  am  trying  to  say,  "  Thy 
will  be  done."  I  am  trying  to  remember 
the  words  Jack  traced  that  morning  in  the 
sand :  "  Little  children,  keep  yourselves  from 
idols."  But  it  is  so  different  to  say,  "  Thy 
will  be  done,"  when  life  is  all  bright  and 
happy,  than  to  say  it  when  the  darkness  has 

come  ;  and  yet  He  is  helping  me. Aunt 

Mary  has  been  such  a  dear  comfort  to  me — 
she  knows  sorrow  so  well;  her  words  are 
very  few,  but  her  tenderness  is  unwearying. 
Last  night,  when  the  twilight  was  so  beauti 
ful,  and  yet  so  sad — just  at  the  hardest  hour 
of  all  the  day,  "  the  edge  of  dark" — she  came 
and  sat  by  my  side  and  took  my  hand  in 
hers,  my  little  lonely  hand — "  widowed  for 
ever  of  one  dear  touch" — softly  repeating  to 
me  comforting  words,  ending  with  a  little 


SUJfMEJS  DRIFT-WOOD. 


163 


hymn,  which  says  just  what  has  been  pent 
in  my  heart  all  these  long  weeks : 

"  I  thought,  but  yesterday, 
My  will  was  one  with  God's  dear  will, 
And  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  say, 
Whatever  ill 

My  happy  state  should  smite  upon, 
Thy  will,  my  God,  be  done. 

'  But  I  was  weak  and  weary, 
Both  weak  of  soul  and  weary  of  heart, 
And  pride  alone  in  me  was  strong, 
With  cunning  art, 
To  cheat  me  in  the  golden  sun 
To  say,  « God's  will  be  done.' 

"  O  shadow  drear  and  cold, 
That  frights  me  out  of  foolish  pride. 

0  flood,  that  through  my  bosom  rolled 
Its  billowy  tide, 

1  said,  till  ye  your  powers  made  known, 
God's  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

"  Now,  faint  and  sore  afraid, 
Under  my  cross — heavy  and  rude — 
My  idols  in  the  ashes  laid, 
Like  ashes  strewed, 
The  holy  words  my  pale  lips  shun — 
O  God,  Thy  will  be  done. 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

"Pity  my  woes,  O  God, 
And  touch  my  will  with  thy  warm  breath, 
Put  in  my  trembling  hand  thy  rod, 
That  quickens  death. 
That  my  dead  faith  may  feel  thy  sun 
And  say,  Thy  will  be  done." 


XXIV. 

OD  sends  us  comfort  in  such  simple 
ways.  Auntie's  hymn  has  made  me 
feel  so  much  happier — it  is  a  prayer  hymn 
to  me,  and  oh,  I  will  try  to  feel  it  is  "  better 

so." 1  will  try  to  still  the  longing  for 

Jack;  but  why  wasn't  I  there?  If  I  could 
only  have  caught  the  last  tones  of  his  voice 
— if  I  could  only  have  held  his  dear  hand  in 
mine,  and  gone  with  him  to  the  verge  of  the 
beyond  ;  but  it  is  all  well — and  there  I  want 
to  rest.  I  will  not  ask  any  more  why  I,  the 
one  who  loved  him  best,  was  not  there.  I 
will  no  more  ask  why  no  ear  heard  the  last 
words — no  eye  read  the  last  look.  I  will 
just  trust  in  Jesus,  and  know  He  loves  me, 
and  be  comforted,  stretching  forth  my  hand 

('65) 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

• — into  the  dark,  though  it  must  be — and  tak 
ing  His  hand,  the  Hand  of  Christ. And 

I  know  that  Jack,  too,  holds  the  same  hand 
— so,  though  I  cannot  see  him,  not  very  far 
off  does  he  seem  —  "only  gone  from  one 

room  into  the  next." And  I  am  happier, 

more  peaceful,  too,  when  I  try  to  think  less 
of  Jack  and  more  of  Christ ;  only  sometimes 
when  the  stars  come  out,  and  smile  down 
like  loving  eyes  from  the  spirit  land,  I  love 
to  think  "  they  are  all  ministering  spirits." 
I  love  to  think  Jack  is  smiling  at  me  from 
his  happy  home,  saying,  "  not  very  long  will 
it  be,  little  Annie,  before  you  come" — bid 
ding  me  journey  on  bravely  through  these 
weary  pilgrim  days. 

But  it  seems  better  not  to  think  these 

thoughts.  Very  good  people  —  those  who 
have  trusted  long  years  —  why,  I  suppose 
they  can,  and  never  be  led  away  from  Jesus 

by  them. But   I'm   so   weak.     I  don't 

think  I  could  feel  so  and  not  sometimes  for 
get  that  Christ  said,  "  Follow  me."  He  did 
not  tell  us  to  follow  those  whom  He  had 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

called,  but  "  Follow  me,"  He  said.  And  if  all 
the  time  I  felt  sure  Jack  was  looking  at  and 
watching  over  me,  listening  to  my  words, 
knowing  all  my  thoughts,  I  would  try,  per 
haps,  to  be  better  and  purer,  to  wait  pa 
tiently,  because  it  would  please  him.  Per 
haps  it  wouldn't  be  so,  but  I  think  I  am 
safer  just  to  say  to  myself,  Christ  knows ; 
He  loves  me ;  He  is  with  me  ; — and  Jack  is 

with  Him. And  I  know  Jack  would  say, 

"  Follow  Christ,  Annie  ;  follow  Him  ;  and 
don't  try  to  lift  the  veil  where  inspiratioa  is 
silent." 

"  And  so  beside  the  silent  sea, 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar ; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 
On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

"  I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronted  palms  in  air; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

"  And  oh,  dear  Lord,  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 
My  human  heart  on  Thee  !" 


XXV. 

r  I  THE  Christmas  time  has  come!  The 
-L  time  dear  old  grandpapa  chose,  that 
beautiful  June  day,  for  the  unbinding  of  my 
summer  wood.  Such  a  different  Christmas 
than  I  thought  it  would  be ! 

I  have  been  holding  in  my  hand  my 

summer  wreath — all  faded  now.  I  wonder 
why  it  makes  me  think  so  of  Aunt  Stella 

and  the  time-worn  picture  case. They 

have  all  given  me  gifts,  seeking  to  interpret 
their  love  and  tender  sympathy  by  the 
choosing  of  these  mute  comforters.  Aunt 
Mary  has  brought  the  Christmas  green  into 
my  room,  and  draped  the  pictures  and  win 
dows  ;  and  over  the  little  clock  on  my  man 
tel,  she  twined  a  branch  of  the  bitter-sweet 

(168) 


DRIFT-WOOD. 


169 


vine — richly  laden  with  bef  ries — silently,  but 
with  many  tears.  Dear  auntie — her  poems 
are  always  these  unspoken  things,  that  say 
so  much.  I  knew  her  thoughts  as  she  twined 
it  in  and  out — the  bitter-sweet — about  my 
time-piece,  just  as  it  is  about  my  life.  She 
looked  so  tenderly  at  me  when  I  said : 
"  Auntie,  I'm  trying  to  change  the  words ; 
trying  to  call  my  summer  blossoms,  that 
I  have  to  carry  into  the  winter,  to  twine 
around  my  future  days  —  sweet -bitter." 
She  only  said,  "  God  help  you,  child.'.' 

Sometimes  it  comes  over  me  so.  How 
could  I  bear  it,  if  I  had  not  known  Christ's 
love  in  my  joy — if  I  had  waited  to  come  to 
Him,  till  "  frightened  by  the  earthquake, 

tried  by  the  fire,  driven  by  the  wind." 

Papa  has  given  me  a  little  miniature  of  Jack, 
painted  from  a  photograph  Carrie  had.  I 
can't  look  at  it  much  yet ;  it  makes  me  want 
him  so.  But  I  know  it  will  be  a  comfort, 
just  as  now  it  is  a  treasure.  Grandpapa — 
he  gave  no  gift ;  but  he  said,  "  Annie,  I 
want  you  to  do  a  Christmas  work  for  me 
IS 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 

Come,  let  us  choose  a  present  for  every  one 
of  the  little  children  who  have  no  earthly 
father  or  mother,  and  who  are  cared  for  at 

the  Orphan  Asylums. I've  enjoyed  it  so 

much  —  the  making  others  happy;  that  is 
what  this  great  sorrow  makes  me  long  to 
do ;  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  their  happiness, 
I  want  to  tell  them  it  all  comes  from  Jesus. 

Fred  has  brought  me  beautiful  flow 
ers.  Fred  is  very  happy ;  he  told  me  last 
night,  when  the  spring  comes  May  Living 
ston  will  be  my  sister.  "  Miss  Golden-hair," 
I  used  to  call  her  in  the  merry  girl-days — 
how  far  away  they  seem  now.  Her  is  so  ten 
der  of  me  in  his  great  joy — dear  Fred.  And 
May,  too,  she  remembered  me,  and  brought 
a  little  motto  card  she  had  painted,  thinking 
of  my  sorrow  even  in  her  gladness.  Such 
precious  words  she  chose :  "  I  am  the  Resur 
rection  and  the  Life." And  Carrie,  poor 

lonely  Carrie,  mourning  for  Jack  her  only 
brother — she  sent  me  a  little  cross,  made 
from  the  mountain  mosses  we  gathered 
when  all  together.  Oh,  they  are  so  good  to 


DRIFT-WOOD.  jy£ 

me,  I  will  try  and  be  cheerful  and  happy  for 
their  sakes.  Even  dear  old  Aunt  Stella  has 
sent  me  a  Christmas  thought.  Yesterday  a 
basket  came,  and  with  it  a  little  note,  writ 
ten  in  her  tremulous  hand — just  the  words  : 
"  God  comfort  you,  child, — and  He  will — the 
old  auntie  knows  He  will.  Remember  '  the 
Everlasting  Arms,'  child."  In  the  basket 
were  rosy-cheeked  apples,  from  old  Hanni 
bal  ;  and  from  Chloe,  a  little  pat  of  butter. 

But  the  sweetest  of  all  this  "peace  time" 
comfort  came  to  me  last  Sunday,  ^  when  I 
was  sitting  in  the  Sunday-school  listening 
to  the  glad  voices  of  the  children  singing, 
"Around  the  throne  of  God  in  heaven." 
One  of  the  rough  boys,  one  of  the  street 
boys,  behind  whose  ragged  clothes,  Jack 
told  rne,  treasures  might  be  hidden,  stole  his 
dirty  hand  into  mine,  and  whispered,  "  You 
love  Jesus,  don't  ye,  Missus  ?  I  brought  ye 
this  ar — though  I  s'pose  ye's  got  lots  at 
home  ;  and  he  gave  me  a  little  sprig  of  the 
Christmas  evergreen. 


XXVI. 

I  HAVE  come  to  the  last  leaf  in  my 
diary.  I  never  shall  keep  another ;  and 
yet  I'm  glad  I  have  kept  this — the  record  of 
oh !  so  much  to  me.  I  remember  how  I 
thought  in  the  far  off  days,  way  off  in  the 
distant  future,  I  would  re-read  its  pages,  sit 
ting  with  my  hand  in  Jack's. But  —  I 

won't  dream  any  more.  I  will  just  try  and 
do  the  work  God  sends.  And  all  the  helpful 
words  Jack  said,  I  don't  need  to  turn  these 
pages,  to  remember  them. Dear  grand 
papa,  I  think  he:  knows  how  hard  I  am  try 
ing — better  even  than  the  others  do.  This 
morning,  when  he  reminded  me  the  day  had 
come  when  1  was  to  unbind  my  summer 
wood,  he  laid  his  hand  on  my  head,  just  as 
(17*) 


SUMMER  DRIFT- WOOD.  j^, 

he  did  the  June  day  when  he  bade  me  gather 
it,  and  said :  "  But,  child,  you  don't  need  to 
unbind  the  wood,  for  the  fire  is  already  lit 

and  burning ! Thank  God,  little  Annie, 

that  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  that  has 
over-gloomed  your  young  life,  His  grace 
has  helped  you  to  '  Let  your  light  shine  be 
fore  men.'  " 

Grandpapa  knows  all  about  it,  without 
my  telling  him  ;  knows  how  the  fuel  for  life's 
winter-fire  Jack's  great  love  gave  me ;  and 
he  knows  the  greater,  deeper,  dearer  com 
fort  that  fills  my  heart  with  light  and  warmth 
because  Christ  said,  "  I  will  not  leave  you 
comfortless.  I  will  come  to  you."  But 
though  grandpapa  knows  it  all,  I  will  give 
him  my  little  book.  I  do  not  fear  his  old 
eyes,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  his  loving  heart ; 
and  I  think  it  will  please  him  to  read  the 
history  of  how  I  found  and  how  I  gathered 
"THE  SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD." 


SUMMER  DRIFT-WOOD. 


"Oh,  'tis  a  thought  most  precious, 

While  journeying  here  below, 
The  pathway  all  unknowing 

In  which  our  steps  must  go. 
That  there's  a  guide  unerring, 

Who  knoweth  all  the  way, 
And  who'll  direct  our  footsteps 

Alike  both  night  and  day. 

"  We  must  not  ask  His  reasons ; 

We  must  not  doubt  His  love ; 
But  take  whate'er  He  sendeth 

As  bidden  from  above. 
And  then  life's  daily  crosses, 

And  blessings,  too,  will  seem 
As  ways  His  wisdom  taketh 

From  danger  to  redeem. 

"  So  we  will  fear  no  evil, 

But  take  that  guiding  hand, 
Follow  that  gentle  leading, 

Obey  that  kind  command  ; 
Him  in  our  ways  acknowledge, 

Walk  in  His  holy  light, 
'Till  earth  be  left  for  heaven, 

And  faith  exchanged  for  sight.' 


175 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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